


The Purple Pirate: uncovered

by Loveismyrevolution



Series: PirateDragQueenVerse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (in more ways than one), Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angry Sherlock, BAMF John, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Club Fic, Confessions and Emotions, Established Relationship, Eyeliner, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Jealous John, John Is Horny, John and Sherlock in love, John is his Captain, M/M, Pole Dancing, Power Bottom Sherlock, Relationship Negotiation, Rimming, Shaving/Manscaping, Sherlock in lace and purple velvet, Sherlock is a Tease, Sherlock is a drag queen, Sherlock is a pirate, Sherlock is still a detective, Top John Watson, a bit of a case, a bit of angst, a lot of love, although they actually switch imo, and heels, do not copy to another site, smut ensured, which is actually make up sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution
Summary: This story is about a case that has Sherlock returning to his persona as The Posh Purple Pirate. It's about the pleasure and challenge of helping Sherlock transform from brilliant Detective to mesmerising Miss Pirate. It's about the temptation Miss Pirate poses on stage, but not just for John. It's about fighting physical enemies and facing inner demons. It's about being stripped bare, body and soul. It's about love, fun, desire and passion. It's about doubt, worries, hurt and anger. It's about understanding. It's about forgiveness.This story... It's not about the legend, the stories, the adventures. It's all about: who you really are, itdoesmatter!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: PirateDragQueenVerse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905319
Comments: 124
Kudos: 45
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One year ago I started posting my stories. 
> 
> Because writing makes me insanely happy, got me new friends in this fandom, gifted me with a soul-mate 💜 and therefore made my life better I thought that was reason enough to celebrate. 
> 
> The best way to celebrate writing is… well… writing, so I treated myself to this totally self-indulgent multi-chapter fic and bestowed my pirate and his captain a continuation of their story.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> This story can be read as a stand alone without problem. Although some nods to earlier stories can be better understood after reading the other fics of the series.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which a case comes up, important equipment is procured, various uses for hair trimmers are discovered and John Watson tries to support his partner as best he can.

It had been a quiet evening so far. Unexpectedly quiet after days and nights of Sherlock moping around the flat, sulking on the sofa, terrorising poor Mrs Hudson and pestering poor him.

John had thought that Sherlock had finally given in to the dry spell of cases since he wasn’t allowed on crime scenes of the Yard any longer. Barely any private cases came in, as people apparently didn’t get as much chance to cheat, to silently disappear, to change identities or to get kidnapped due to the pandemic. Sherlock didn’t like any of those changes.

“What is a pandemic even good for, John?” he had complained one day.

“Love, I don’t think it’s good for anything really.” John had shaken his head at his nutter of a boyfriend.

“If it’s so utterly useless then why invent it in the first place?” Sherlock had whined.

“That’s not exactly how it works. And you damn well know that, you git.” John had huffed about Sherlock’s silly behaviour.

“I don’t care; I don’t approve of it anyway!” Sherlock had pouted and flopped on the sofa for his next round of sulking.

“Well, they — whoever is responsible for this shit — don’t care either,” John had countered and had shrugged, “they didn’t ask for your approval.”

“Welllll,” Sherlock had childishly imitated John, “they most definitely should have. I could have told them that it would be a terrible idea.” The pillow underneath his head had received a punch and the blanket on the other end of the sofa had been kicked off in Sherlock’s wrestle with his dressing gown to wrap himself up like a sushi roll.

“Well in that case, they definitely should have.” John had sighed and hoped that they were done with nonsensical discussions — at least for now, until the next one came up.

With that being the current mood in 221b, in retrospect, John should have been suspicious about the sudden contentment.

Only now, sitting in their respective chairs, enjoying the cosiness of a domestic evening in each other’s company; John reading and Sherlock typing away on his laptop while sipping a G&T each; he realised it had started after the habitual morning with tea and toast and… newspaper.

The moment Sherlock stopped typing and hummed happily behind his laptop, John looked up to discover a wicked smirk on the detective's face. His eyes twinkled mischievously and John knew, this meant trouble.

“Case?” He tried to keep it casual.

“Hmmmhmm,” Sherlock confirmed happily.

“Oh.” It was rather rare to find cases that made Sherlock this level of happy these days. “Must be a good one if you’re this delighted by an in-home case.”

“Who said anything about in-home?” Sherlock literally brimmed with life.

“You’re not allowed out anymore.” John frowned.

“Apparently, I am for this one.” Sherlock grinned. “Seems, none of the Yarders wants to go undercover for this one and there really is no-one as suited as I am. For once, the Yarders are more than willing to let me take center stage.”

Something in that wording struck John weird, but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. Sherlock was already up and about, hurrying to their bedroom in a flourish, and John almost didn’t get a chance to ask.

“What kind of case is it then?” he called after Sherlock.

The whirlwind of a man stopped short and twirled dramatically to look at John.

“For this one, I have to be a pirate!” He exclaimed, as excited as a child.

“A… pirate?” John frowned.

Sherlock looked at John from under his lashes, lowered his chin and his voice.

“A Purple Pirate, John!”

With that the bedroom door first flew open then was flung shut with a bang and the flat was quiet again.

John felt heat creep to his face. He hadn’t seen the Purple Pirate since their very first night. It was a very very memorable night. He had been so alone and he owed that Posh Purple Pirate so much. She… he… — John chuckled at the realisation that he still mixed the images up in his mind. No matter which, it was all fine anyway, that enigmatic Pirate had entered his life and made him drown in an instant. And saved his life.

John got up and slowly followed Sherlock. He opened the bedroom door and — yes — there it was. In Sherlock’s hands, held up in front of him, was his “disguise” exactly as John remembered it; every little detail — the corset of purple velvet, the metal buttons and embroidery shimmering in the dim light of the bedroom; the lace and leather layered skirt which barely deserved its name; lace tights thin like spiderwebs slung around the hanger, side by side with the sinful and surely illegal lace panties; draped over the bar was the high-necked sleeveless blouse which made John’s gaze skip immediately to the long pale neck it was once clad on.

“Do you remember it?” Sherlock asked, in his other hand holding the high heels by the long laces that reached up to above his knees when put on.

“If I remember it…?” John croaked. He wasn’t quite able to swallow against the sudden dryness of his mouth. _'If he remembered it?_ Seriously?' “So, ‘taking center stage’ was meant quite literally then?” He hadn’t felt this excited about a case for ages. But then, the excitement probably wasn’t solely about the case. Or rather, not about the actual case at all…

“Yep,” Sherlock only said, popping the ‘p’ as he loved to do, “becoming Miss Pirate again!” and his eyes gleamed. John saw his suspicion confirmed that The Pirate was more than just a disguise for Sherlock.

“And I? I’m mimicking the limping army-doctor again?” John laughed a bit half-heartedly. Would Sherlock even need him on the case? Considering all the current restrictions it was very well possible that John wasn’t even allowed to accompany Sherlock. John felt a bit sick at the thought of Sherlock out in the open in that outfit, for all thirsty eyes to see, let alone all greedy hands to grab. If he thought back to his own reaction to the sight… He swallowed.

“We’re long over the stage of the limping army-doctor, John, aren’t we?” Sherlock pulled him back from his thoughts.

“Are we?” John asked, a bit insecure.

“Of course we are!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Now you’re my pimp!”

John almost choked on his own breath. He got caught in a cough fit until Sherlock thumped him on his back a couple of times.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked, concerned. Face still red, tears rolling down his nose, John looked at Sherlock.

“Your… pimp?” he asked, voice rough from the cough.

“I can try to find someone else if you don’t…” Sherlock said with a frown.

“NO! No, no.” John hasted to interrupt him. “You don’t have to… No.” He shook his head, cleared his voice. “That was just… unexpected.”

“Was it?” Sherlock looked at him incredulously. “Considering the case is about a territory feud between the self proclaimed head of the business and the old-established community of procurers…” he went off on a rant.

“You didn’t exactly tell me though.” John deadpanned.

“Didn't I?” Sherlock looked sincerely surprised.

“No,” John sighed.

“Well, however, our acquaintance comes in very handy now…”

“Acquaintance?” John grunted in disbelief.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Like what?”

“Like… that!” Sherlock flailed his arms in John’s general direction. “As if you wouldn’t know that I’d love to be shagged on every possible and impossible surface of this flat now the quarantine ensures us undisturbed days on end, if only tedious inconveniences as refractory periods or your incredibly exorbitant need to sleep wouldn't get in the way. Why do you think I’m in such a mood all the time? Such a wasted opportunity!” he hissed.

John swallowed, at a loss for words, the traitorous heat back on his face. Sherlock though was oblivious to the impact of his words and prattled on.

“What I mean is, that it is very convenient that there’s a helping hand with the costume now as it proved to be quite difficult to put it on on my own.” Sherlock wiggled the tempting object of discussion in front of John’s face.

Only now, seeing Sherlock and the costume of The Purple Pirate side by side, it struck him that he had never seen them together. Which was ridiculous as they were one and the same, but… he hadn’t seen them merge, so to speak. And now, he was supposed to assist. He wasn’t sure if he’d come out safe and sane at the other end of this undertaking…

“Now?” he rasped, incapable to control his voice.

“Of course not _now_!” Sherlock huffed, as if John had said the dumbest thing ever. “For one, we’d never get ready in time and I’d first need to make some calls to my old clubs anyway…”

“Your old clubs?” John asked, perplexed. But Sherlock just ignored it and continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“... and second,” he said as if it was something they’d talked about endless times already, “you don’t really expect me to put on those tights with my legs looking like _this?_!”

Sherlock gestured towards his legs, which he most delicately put on display from under his dressing gown now. John wondered, what he was supposed to see as Sherlock’s legs looked like they always did — disgustingly beautifully endlessly long, pale, lean, just the right amount of muscles, covered in fine dust of dark hair. Nothing out of the ordinary. Puzzled, he gazed up at Sherlock, who dangled the tights in front of his face and looked at John through the see-through spider web. He raised his eyebrows and wiggled the tights a bit more until it clicked in John’s mind. See-through tights… legs covered in hair…

His gaze snapped up to lock eyes with Sherlock, who only smirked.

“Exactly, John. We have to do some shopping at the pharmacy tomorrow. And afterwards, you will have the honour of helping me.”

The grin he gave John was quite devilish.

* * *

The next morning found John Watson awkwardly strolling the aisle of women’s toiletries at the chemist's. Sherlock bustling about in a flurry of excitement pulled out one product after the other, discussing the pros and cons noisily with John across the shelves as if they were the only customers. John tried hard to become invisible while still showing interest in the new "project" for Sherlock's sake. After all, it was in his Won best interest as well, he just wasn’t able to concentrate on the task without thinking about the implications of the supplies Sherlock gathered. It would be highly inappropriate to indulge in those thoughts in public…

Apparently, he had been lost in memories after all, because he hadn’t noticed Sherlock approaching him.

“Only one more thing, but I really do need your opinion for that. Don’t dawdle, John.” And off he was again.

John caught a glance at Sherlock's shopping basket and frowned.

“Sherlock? That’s not for shaving. Even if it’s obviously meant for legs… you know that, right?” John raised one eyebrow.

“Who said anything about ‘shaving’?” Sherlock countered without slowing his pace.

“You said. Yesterday. That’s why we’re here, right?” John hustled after Sherlock, almost running over an old lady, who complained about the youth of these days and barked at him to "keep his distance" and that he "really should take the risks more seriously" and "that he should ask one of the poor doctors if he still doesn't believe it". John quickly muttered an apology and "yes, poor doctors indeed" and hurried after Sherlock, who hadn't noticed anything of the encounter.

“No, I merely implied that I need to get rid of my overly male body hair.” Sherlock carried on as if nothing had happened.

John was confused, had to rewind his memory to be able to catch on to the conversation. When he did he stopped short; behind him a woman with a pushchair only just avoided crashing into him, giving him an angry glare. _'Yes, yes, social distancing, I know!'_ , John thought and almost rolled his eyes in a perfect Sherlockian way. 

"Sorry," he said and grinned and only then realised that it probably wasn't even visible behind his mask.

“Body hair?” he inquired, no longer caring if someone overheard them. “Leg hair, you mean.” John forced out, frowning.

“Body hair I said, body hair I mean.” Sherlock murmured, almost not audible through his skull-dotted mask. He was leaning over and intensely studying the next display of beauty products.

John’s blood first ran cold before heating up to boiling point immediately afterwards. He coughed, looked around, certain everyone was able to x-ray his brain and private parts and deduce his urge to slam Sherlock against the next shelf and rip his clothes off to indulge and enjoy all of that body hair which would come off at the end of the day. _That_ and more...

“Problem?” Sherlock asked without looking at John.

“Nope,” John croaked, not able to master his voice. “Just wondering if you’re really sure you want to… wax it?”

At first, Sherlock didn’t react and John thought he hadn’t heard as he was rummaging in whatever assortment he was looking for. However, when he reemerged with a handful of shiney tubes in bright colours he turned to look at John, all serious.

“Considering we don’t know how long this case will take I can’t risk any stubble… _anywhere._ And you can fully trust my expertise in this field as it happens to not be the first time I’ll depilate my body.” Sherlock stated as if talking about one of his mould experiments.

John only whimpered silently, hoping Sherlock hadn’t heard.

“Now, come over here, John, and tell me what would suit me better — the “Better Than Sex” mascara or the “Extended Play Gigablack Lash” mascara?!” He looked at his choices, contemplating.

John closed his eyes and tried to breath. _‘Jesus Christ, help me to survive this case!’_

“What happened to your other mascara?” he asked weakly.

“Used it all up,” Sherlock said and John winced.

Did this mean Sherlock had used mascara more than once? John had never seen him with it after their fabulous first night. The memory of The Pirate with eyeliner and mascara was still much too vicious to imagine Sherlock putting it on for any other occasion and stay even remotely sane.

_‘Christ, Christ, Christ. Jesus Motherfucking Christ!’_

Why for the love of God and all deities had they never considered this for their bedroom repertoire? Oh right, probably because John would be dead a thousand times by now…

“John, really… What is it with you today?” Sherlock pulled him from his thoughts. “So… which one?” He wiggled the objects of interest in front of John’s eyes.

“Take the… extended… giga… play…thing...” John did his best to hold it together, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. There really was only one goal — get that oblivious berk home and show him some extended-giga-play…

* * *

At home, Sherlock dumped all his new treasures on the kitchen table and eyed them happily. He picked at them, fished some out and whirled around.

“Time to get to work, John!” Sherlock beamed and rushed to the bathroom without waiting for response.

John, conveniently calmed down again thanks to over-heated tubes crowded by sweaty smelling people, followed him, came standing next to him at the sink and waited to be briefed about the upcoming agenda. When Sherlock started to unpack and inspect various versions and sizes of cold wax strips though, he couldn’t stop himself from intervening. Rembering the totally unnescessary torture some of his girlfriends went through to achieve the desired hairlessness, he couldn’t just wait and watch Sherlock putting himself through hell.

“Sherlock,” he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, “wait! Experience and expertise and whatnot… you can’t use that on your ‘manly’ legs just so! That’s… insane!”

“I didn’t intend to.” Sherlock reassured him.

“Then what?” John wrinkled his brow in confusion.

“You have that electric hair trimmer, right? That one with the different extensions to adjust the cutting length, you're keeping your beard in shape with.” Sherlock reminded John.

“Yep, as did you before you shaved yours off.” The glare he gave Sherlock was only half real as he loved Sherlock’s smooth skin just as much.

“You know it didn’t suit me as well as it does you. Your very own study confirmed it.” Sherlock smirked, but the way he longingly scanned John’s bearded face took away all the effect of his smugness.

“By two percent, you git!” John laughed.

“I didn’t win though.” Sherlock pouted. “And not winning is unacceptable for me.”

John chuckled. He loved that easy banter and silly teasing between them. His laugh died in his throat though, when Sherlock suddenly turned and pushed him against the sink, towering over him. He leaned down and nuzzled John’s neck and cheek.

“I’m extremely pleased though, that you were the one winning.” Sherlock purred next to John’s ear in his smooth panther voice. “I don’t even dare to imagine you’d shaved your beard off in bruised pride…”

John’s knees went weak and he had to regain some composure when suddenly Sherlock straightened and cheerily, all back to business, said, “Alright, let’s get it over with then.” God, living with this man was one hell of a rollercoaster ride.

Sherlock rummaged in their cabinets until he found the hair trimmer.

“You’ll shorten my hair to a convenient length to wax it afterwards. My research narrowed down to a length of 1,4 to 2 centimetre to get the most effective epilation. So, please, be precise to avoid unnecessary repeats.” he said and pushed it in John’s unsuspecting hands.

“Me?” That came out much too high-pitched for his own liking.

“Of course, John. Do keep up. I told you it’s very convenient to have you here. So, get on with it.”

With that Sherlock started to undress. Very efficient though, no seductive gazes, no teasing lingering. No, it was shirt buttons, cuffs — shirt off. Laces untied, shoes dropped, socks chucked — feet bare. Trouser button popped free, zip lowered, hip wiggle — trousers sliding down. Sherlock stepped out of the trousers pooling around his ankles. Business or not though, it was impossible to ignore that at this point Sherlock was half hard under his skin-tight black boxer briefs. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband and holding John’s gaze he pushed his pants slowly down until he stood in the middle of the bathroom — naked and very obviously aroused.

John was all too aware that the teasing was back full force. _‘Oh, that evil bastard!’_ John had one advantage though… He was still fully clothed. Which somehow left Sherlock at his mercy. True to that thought, Sherlock spread his arms and legs, displaying himself, and closed his eyes.

“Do it, John.” Sherlock said and John was certain that the roughness in his voice hadn’t been intentional.

Swallowing, John stepped forwards. The moment he turned on the trimmer and the buzzing sound filled the air, he saw a shiver running over Sherlock’s body. _‘Jeez, this was one crazy kind of foreplay’_ , he thought even though he wasn’t sure it was really. He definitely wouldn’t mind though; as wouldn’t his cock considering the way the front of his corduroy trousers bulged.

“All of it?” he asked with a thick voice.

“All of it!” Sherlock answered, voice just as affected.

So John got to work. To give himself some time, and spare his mind some seizures, he decided to work from top to bottom. _‘Bottom… no no no, no good… no, brain, no… don’t go there… we’ll never make it otherwise!!!’_

At first, to redirect his thoughts, it helped that Sherlock was extremely sensitive, which in case of the armpits meant extremely ticklish.

“Stop wiggling, Sherlock!” John scolded him.

“Then stop tickling me!” Sherlock giggled and squirmed under John’s ministrations.

“ _You_ came up with this genius idea though.” He gave Sherlock a stern look. “So now, stay still, Holmes! That’s an order!” John instructed in his best Captain Watson voice.

Red blotches started blooming and spread all over Sherlock’s cheeks and neck and chest. His breathing sped up a bit and his lips parted. ‘ _Oh yes, the captain’s voice never failed to do its job!’_ , thought John not without a certain degree of smugness. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock’s cock had taken some interest as well. Even though Sherlock tried to stand still, he kept squirming under John’s hands. John suspected it was due to decidedly different reasons now though.

Sherlock never took his eyes off John who had now taken to the sparse chest hair. He especially took his sweet time with the fuzz of scattered hairs around Sherlock’s small deeply red nipples. It wasn’t exactly necessary, but John enjoyed how Sherlock’s breath hitched when he grazed the small nubs with the buzzing and vibrating device. They hardened and stood immediately and John couldn’t resist to lean down, put his lips on one of them and suck. The hitch turned into a hiss, then turned into a moan when John added the press and the teasing touch of his tongue. 

He realised that he couldn’t avoid taking care of the lower regions of Sherlock’s body any longer. Immediately, he regretted his former administrations when he came face to face with Sherlock’s deeply flushed, desperately hard and already leaking erection the moment he knelt in front of him. His mouth watered and he leaned forward to run his nose along the crease of Sherlock’s groin. He inhaled deeply and his beard covered cheeks scratched along Sherlock’s cock and made it twitch.

"Christ, John…” Sherlock panted. “Keep this up and we won’t get anything done.”

“We have the whole day though.” John mumbled against Sherlock’s skin.

“And we’ve barely started…” Sherlock pointed out half-heartedly. “Maybe… maybe do my legs first? Can’t promise that I’d be capable of standing upright… after…”

“After… what?” John sat back on his heels and innocently looked up at Sherlock. Although his own tenting trousers undermined the effect of innocence decidedly.

“John Watson, you’re an insufferable tease…” Sherlock growled.

“And you love it.” John smirked.

"Unfortunately…” He was still breathing fast.

“So, give me your impossible foot then. Place it on my thigh here.” John patted his leg and Sherlock followed suit.

“What in God’s name can be impossible about a foot?” Sherlock asked puzzled while he wriggled his toes in John’s lap when John started trimming the hairs on his ankle and shin.

“The man it is attached to.” He laughed and got punished for it with a foot rubbing over his groin. Only barely holding back a groan, he grabbed the leg by its ankle, tight, and growled, “Hold. Still.”

After that John continued his task clinically, making his way upwards, without further interruption although the air in the bathroom was still charged. When Sherlock’s legs looked mostly bare even though they remained weirdly stubbly, John made Sherlock turn for an inspection of his work. The moment he was presented with Sherlock’s perfect plush bum he winced internally. Too concentrated on the legs, he had strictly ignored Sherlock’s demand to tend to _all_ the hair. Bum means crease means perineum… holy shit! Well, better get done with it then. Taking hold of Sherlock’s slim hips he stopped him in his turn.

“Stop. Lean over. Brace yourself on the sink.” he demanded, not caring anymore that his voice was rough and dark.

“John?” Sherlock sounded slightly alarmed but complied with John’s instructions without hesitation anyway.

The still buzzing trimmer in one hand, John ran the other up on the back of Sherlock’s upper thigh until he reached the swell of the delicious arse cheek. Caressing the soft flesh with his flat hand he pretended to check for hair. However, the increasing tightness and discomfort in his pants told a completely different story. When Sherlock leaned back into his touch he reflexively steadied him. With both hands though; the handle of the buzzing device accidentally pressed against the bottom of his bum between his thighs.

"Bloody hell, John! You better hurry…” Sherlock rasped, breathing hard.

So, John guided the trimmer first over the plush arse cheeks, from the small of his back down until they merged into the thigh. Over and over again, from hip inwards, alternating between the sides. It was almost meditativ if it weren’t for Sherlock’s silent curses and John’s racing heartbeat. When only the cleft was left unshaved, the image of spreading Sherlock’s cheeks to get access to the dusty hair covering the skin in between, made John groan. He knew he should probably finish his work, which would definitely not happen this way. Besides, having only one hand to hold Sherlock's cheeks apart and one hand to guide the trimmer wasn’t particularly practical. Torn between his task and burning desire, a different much better plan formed in John’s mind. He’d get back to that tempting backside, but all in good time. 

“Turn!” he commanded.

“Why?” his brat of a partner dared to scrutinise his instructions, looking over his shoulder with a blush on his cheekbones and heavy lidded eyes.

“Captain's order!” John growled.

As if that was reason enough Sherlock turned and leaned backwards against the sink, his hands holding him up steadily, his legs spread wantonly. He looked down at John, who waited for a confirming nod before he sank the trimmer in the dark nest of curls around the base of Sherlock’s cock. When the hum and the buzz of the device vibrated against Sherlock’s erection his knees buckled slightly and a drop of precome slowly dribbled down the slit and the underside of the glans. Without thinking, John leaned in and caught the droplet with his pointed tongue, flicking the sensitive frenulum on its way. 

“God, John…” the detective moaned. “Tell me, why is that case important again?” 

“Don’t know exactly,” John murmured, taking hold of Sherlock’s cock, pressing the pad of his thumb against the frenulum, rubbing miniscule circles that made Sherlock’s eyelids flutter. “Something about lace panties…”

“Right, yes, lace panties,” Sherlock hissed. “That’s it. Maybe.” 

John now proceeded with trimming Sherlock’s pubes while holding his penis in a tight grip the whole time. He pretended to guide it out of the way to have access to all areas of skin around the base, but with each movement he stroked it deliberately slowly. Judging by Sherlock’s ragged breaths he wouldn’t be able to stand the teasing much longer. 

“Left leg. Up. Over my shoulder.” What should have been a demand came out huffed and short of breath. 

Sherlock had apparently lost all ability to argue and just followed suit. He wobbled a bit on his legs but John helped him. The moment the hollow of Sherlock’s knee settled over John’s shoulder he abandoned Sherlock’s cock, under very vocal protest and curses, for the sake of fondling and checking Sherlock’s sac for hair in need of a trim. The detective cursed some more only now for different reasons. 

Due to the close proximity caused by their position John’s view on the area was a bit blurry and he had to go on by touch alone. He closed his eyes to heighten his senses to ‘better see with his fingers’, which he was good in, being a doctor and all, and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s belly. He had underestimated that also the smell would be much more intense and the scent of Sherlock combined with the noises he made, set John’s body on fire. 

The trimmer, which had finished its task on Sherlock’s scrotum at this point, went ignored and stilled in its progress the moment John leaned in and took Sherlock in his mouth. There was no room left in his mind for elaborated technique or a slow build up; he swallowed him entirely in one go until he felt the bristly stubble of the remains of Sherlock’s pubic hair against his nose. The head of Sherlock’s cock pressed tightly against John’s throat, restricting his airways and _‘Fucking. Hell.’_ he could feel the vibrations of the trimmer pressed against Sherlock’s perineum transferred all the way to his palate. He groaned around the cock in his mouth and Sherlock bucked his hips and thrusted even deeper into John’s mouth.

“John, come on, please _… Jooohn_ ,” Sherlock moaned, the leg carrying his weight trembling dangerously.

John choked slightly, pulled back. His brain supplied with fresh oxygen, he janked the trimmer away from Sherlock’s skin, alarmed he might accidentally hurt him in their uncontrolled movements. He jolted when he suddenly felt one of Sherlock’s hands grabbing his hair in a tight fist.

“Noooo… Joooohn…” Sherlock growled. “Put it back! Put it baaaack!” 

Taking hold of one bony hip he stopped Sherlock in his needy thrusts. Flipping the trimmer in his hand he quickly checked there was no danger of cutting the man, before pressing the buzzing blunt handle of the device firmly against Sherlock’s perineum. Sherlock’s deep, long moan it caused nearly did John in. Bobbing his head he met Sherlock’s forceful thrust halfway, his lips tightly wrapped around his lovers straining erection. He sucked sharply each time he pulled back, beads of precome coating his tongue. The vigour of the way Sherlock was now fucking his mouth, desperate for release, let no room for playful tonguing, so he only stiffened his tongue and pressed it against the underside of Sherlock’s cock, trapping and pushing it against his palate, increasing the pressure and friction. True to his expectations, Sherlock started swearing and babbling incoherently.

“God, your mouth… your damn mouth, John. Yes yes no…. ohmygooooood,” the only things John could make of it. 

He was desperate to touch himself, his own cock hard as a rock still painfully trapped in his pants, but Sherlock was barely able to hold himself upright the way his leg was shaking; so John reached around his hips to support him. Between the one hand, pushing and circling the vibrating trimmer against Sherlock’s sensitive flesh behind his balls, and the other hand, conveniently reaching so far around to be able to cup the rhythmically flexing gluteus muscles of Sherlock’s arse and dip its fingers into the crease, there was no way for John to get as much as a hint of friction. It almost drove him out of his mind. With no possibility to move, not even to buck his hips to get the sad excuse of stimulation against his pants, trapped as he was under the weight of Sherlock’s leg over his shoulder, he pushed Sherlock deeper, sucked harder, to speed up Sherlock’s approaching orgasm. 

He let his fingers slide up and down the sweaty crease of Sherlock's arse until his middle finger rested over his entrance. By now, Sherlock had abandoned all words, his panting peppered with grunts and needy little sounds. John increased the pressure on Sherlock’s rim, rubbing his fingertip over it as good as he was able to with Sherlock’s now erratic movements. The man faltered in his rhythm; the skin underneath John’s hands damp from the sweat elicited by desperation of feeling the release within reach but not being there just yet. Sherlock silently started murmuring again and John realised it was a chant of begging ‘please please please’. His jaw began to ache, saliva coated his chin and he was afraid his dick would suffer severe damage if this took any longer. His fingers moistened from the droplets of sweat gathering between Sherlock’s arse cheeks, John dared to push his finger firmer against Sherlock’s entrance until the muscles gave way and he dipped his fingertip in. Sherlock cried out in pleasure but seemed to linger on the verge of coming, not quite able to let go yet. Without feeling any resistance, John slid his finger deeper, never faltering in his ministrations to Sherlock’s cock. His mind went foggy from feeling the same vibrations, which were pushed against the back of his throat by Sherlock’s dick, now buzzing under his searching digit. He let his finger slide against the smooth and hot tissue, pushed as far as he needed to crook his finger and pushed down the moment he felt the small nub of Sherlock's prostate underneath his fingertip. 

Shouting out John’s name for the entire neighbourhood to hear Sherlock came into John’s mouth. Buckling over, his legs turned to jelly and his belly muscles spasming, Sherlock nearly collapsed while John tried to swallow away spurt after spurt of his semen. The moment Sherlock’s orgasm ebbed away John dumped the trimmer, tried to guide Sherlock to the floor next to him as best as possible while simultaneously reaching for his own belt. Breathing harshly, hand trembling, he one-handedly fumbled to get his flies open while holding a limp detective in his other arm. The zipper wasn’t even lowered completely yet when John impatiently pushed the waistband of his pants out of the way. He hissed sharply when suddenly a chilly big hand reached for his dick, pulled it out and wrapped tightly around it. 

“Holy fuck…” John growled, his voice rough from the fucking, and threw his head back, eyes tightly squeezed shut. 

It only took two, three strokes for him to come as well with a deep grunt, covering Sherlock’s hand in a fair amount of come. 

When he was able to breath again, he let himself sag against their bathroom cupboard, pulling Sherlock against his chest. The detective let go of John’s softening cock and wiped his hand on John’s trousers.

“Oi, you git!” John nudged him. “No need to ruin my trousers.”

“I'm not wearing any and yours are hideous anyway.” Sherlock said, as if they hadn’t just shared some mind-blowing and absolutely insane sex.

“Is that so?” John laughed. “Didn’t seem to put you off just yet!” 

“Only because you were distracting me with your inept handling of the trimmer.” Sherlock retorted snootily while nuzzling against John’s neck at the same time.

“Oh, I think my “handling” was quite successful.” John smirked, pushed his nose against the mob of curls tickling his chin.

“Well, not entirely true. Maybe your help isn’t as effective after all.” Sherlock said.

“What?” John pulled back and looked at Sherlock.

“If I recall correctly you didn’t finish your task of trimming _all_ the hair; now we have to fix that later. Plus, your distractions did cost us valuable time. Which means we need to proceed immediately.” Contradicting his own words he cuddled against John’s chest and welcomed the doctor’s arms wrapping around him.

“You berk,” John chuckled and hugged his ridiculous partner even tighter. “Right, proceed, we must then. With… what precisely?”

“Wax!” Sherlock exclaimed and sat up, eyes gleaming like a child's at christmas.

“Oh God…” John groaned, burying his face in his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which John learns about a lot of things: his duties as a doctor, the value of household remedies, a lot of different languages, the equipment of the queen and his own role in this case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm welcome (back) you have given my Pirate and his Captain!! It makes me immensely happy that you're all here, reading, leaving kudos and comments, bookmarking the story or even adding it to a collection of favourites. I'm so grateful for all of it and for every single one of you! You're marvels!!  
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> * * *
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>  _What is more_ : I decided to remove the #case fic tag, because I realised this fic... It's not about the legend, the stories, the adventures. It's all about: who you really are, it _does _matter!__
> 
> * * *

If John had gotten the illusion that removing one’s partner's body hair is a sexy undertaking he was quickly cured. 

The grinning child on Christmas had quickly turned into a pouting toddler arguing with John who refused to put Sherlock through the endeavour of waxing his entire body.

“No, Sherlock. I’m not doing it. I’m a doctor, I made a vow to never intentionally or knowingly and unnecessarily harm other people. And _that_ ,” he pointed at the first strip glued to the skin of Sherlock’s shin, “is definitely all three of it! Additionally, it’s completely bonkers!!” he shouted.

“Being a doctor you are obligated to help me!” Sherlock glared at John.

“I’m really not!” John huffed. “Why would I?”

“Because I’m begging for your help and I can seriously harm myself without it.” Sherlock raised his chin and looked daringly at John.

“Don't see much begging going on here. Besides, no serious damage will come from waxing and my medical knowledge will not spare you the pain. I prefer to have some much needed tea." John countered.

“If it’s not that serious then you can easily help, despite your little vow.” Sherlock retorted.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! No! I’m not doing it! And ‘little vow’? I’m just ignoring that part for the moment, yeah?” John stemmed his hands on his hips. His intimidating attitude slightly altered by the fact that he had chucked his trousers to put them in the laundry and was now standing in front of Sherlock his shirt rumpled and partly unbuttoned hanging messily over his cotton pants, legs bare and feet covered in two different socks — a side-effect of quarantine induced indifference. 

“You have to! It’s your job!” Sherlock pouted.

“How is that my job?” John’s voice high-pitched in his annoyance about this impossible creature.

“As my P.A. you have to assist me under any circumstances.” Sherlock said, seriously.

“Your P.A.?” John barked out a laugh.

“Well… live-in P.A. then…” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“My only job right now is not murdering you within the next minute, Sherlock!” John snarled through gritted teeth. 

“You know, we would be done much quicker if you just gave in and did it.” Sherlock hissed.

“NO!” John shouted, getting seriously angry.

There was a moment of silence and John saw Sherlock swallowing. He immediately regretted his temper and felt slightly guilty at the hurt expression on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock lowered his gaze and nodded slowly. 

John was about to turn and leave the bathroom when Sherlock took a deep breath and looked at John from under his lashes. 

“Please?” he whispered.

John swallowed, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He growled and clenched his jaws while staring at Sherlock who didn’t even bat an eyelid. 

“Ohhhh… you bastard,” he snarled. “This once. Only this once!” He hissed approaching the detective.

“Of course, John…” Sherlock said humbly but couldn’t quite hide his smirk.

It didn’t take long though until a fuming John Watson stomped out of the bathroom anyway despite Sherlock’s efforts. After having endured Sherlock’s meticulous instructions and his complaining about John’s lack of technique, it was Sherlock shouting abuse at John for ripping off the strip — as instructed by the way — that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

John plumped down in his chair, feeling ridiculous in his pants alone, but was far too worked up to do anything about it. He was tortured for the better part of an hour by shouting and cursing and swearing coming from the bathroom until it was finally quiet again. The sound of traipsing bare feet made him turn and look over his shoulder. 

There stood a naked Sherlock, looking sheepishly at him, hair a rumpled mess, chest and arms and legs a map of patches in different shades of red. Shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other he was wringing his hands.

“I might require your help, if convenient.” he said hesitantly. John raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, is that so?” he said cooley. He saw Sherlock squirming, trying to muster up the courage to go on.

“You might possibly have been right that waxing isn’t the most convenient method of hair removal for all body parts.” Sherlock blushed and John instantly wondered what his madman had been up to again. Because _of course_ he wouldn’t deny his love any serious request for help, he raised himself out of his chair, still demonstratively slowly though, and indicated Sherlock to lead the way and that he would follow.

The moment Sherlock turned and strutted ahead of him, John burst into a fit of laughter, spotting the edge of a wax strip peeking out from between Sherlock’s arse cheeks.

“Not funny!” Sherlock said icily without stopping his stride.

“Yes funny!” John said, still laughing but following his partner anyway. 

“So, what are we doing now?” John asked mockingly, still chuckling, when they were back in the bathroom. However, Sherlock’s tiny insecure shrug and sincerely embarrassed face melted his heart. He stepped closer and pressed a firm kiss on his partner’s mouth. 

“Don’t you worry, love.” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips. “Doctor John will take care of you.” He winked at the furiously blushing detective and slapped his backside gently. “Take some towels and go lie on the bed. I’ll be right back with you.” He instructed and marched off in the direction of the kitchen. 

Sherlock did as he was told and when John entered the bedroom he was blessed with the sight of the lean muscled body of his gorgeous boyfriend splayed out on his back over the towel covered mattress. _‘Right. Where was I?’_ He cleared his throat and tried to concentrate on the supplies he had gathered in the kitchen. A bowl with warm water in one of his hands, some disposable cloths and one of their blunt butter knives huddled in the other and a bottle of olive oil clenched under his arm. There was work to be done.

“Okay then,” he said, setting down his equipment. He got comfortable on the bed and laid a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “Bend your knees and splay your legs for me.” He told Sherlock and tried to sound unaffected and professional.

However, when Sherlock held his gaze while he pulled his knees up to his chest and opened them as wide as possible, John knew he was in trouble. This had no right to be this arousing considering the task at hand and his earlier not insignificantly intense orgasm. He needed all his strength to first see to Sherlock’s problem because, really, how can a genius be such an idiot. 

The treatment resulted in cosy cuddles and quiet intimate talking while a cloth drenched with warm water rested between Sherlock’s arse cheeks to soak and soften the wax strip. Occasionally, John checked on the result, renewed the water, probed at the wax still stuck to Sherlock’s not yet trimmed hair, tried to remove the strip until Sherlock hissed in pain. Then he returned to holding the mad genius in his arms and listening to his lecture about the sublimity of ancient beauty products over our meagre modern attempts to imitate them while he let his own thoughts roam. He felt his heart fill and overflow with the love he felt for his brilliant but stupid man.

After a while though, John was able to peel the tissue part of the strip off, the butter knife dipped in olive oil his surgeon’s instrument. He was highly concentrated on his task of removing all remains of wax by slathering it in olive oil, smearing and rubbing it over the area until even the tiniest rest of wax was gone. Triumphantly he looked up at Sherlock and his heart skipped a beat. His gaze was met by eyes dark as the night sky, watching him from under heavy eyelids. Sherlock’s chest was rising and falling in the fast pace of his shallow breaths, the hands pulling his knees apart were trembling. His cock, nestled on his lower belly, was half-hard again.

“John…,” he said under his breath, voice low and dark, sending little sparks of fire through John’s veins. “We’re not done yet.” And it seemed to be a reprimand and a whine at the same time. And it was true, they weren’t and John doubted that they’d ever make it to the club, but it wouldn’t matter because he wouldn’t survive that long anyway.

“No, we’re not,” he croaked and cleared his voice. “You are aware that there’s only one option left, right?” John asked, his gravelly voice making it sound as if they were to commit a murder. _‘Probably true’_ , John thought, _‘with me as the victim.’_

“Do it,” Sherlock rumbled.

John all but tumbled off the bed and scuttled over to the bathroom. Quickly he snatched everything he needed and rushed back to their bedroom to find Sherlock in the same position, legs splayed wide, displaying himself, but his eyes closed and taking steadying breaths. John could relate all too much. _‘Damn.’_ He wasn’t in his twenties anymore. He’d die of a heart attack from over-exhaustion mid coitus, like in those jokes not even funny enough to laugh about. He straightened his spine and took a deep breath. _‘You survived a war, Watson’_ , he told himself, _‘you’ll survive shaving Sherlock Holmes’ arse!’_ Although he wasn’t so sure.

When the mattress dipped under his weight, Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he followed John’s sturdy and controlled movements. John settled between Sherlock’s legs and draped them over his own spread thighs to keep them apart. He reached for the hem of his own shirt to take it off. Sherlock raised one inquiring eyebrow.

"I don't want to get that dirty," he said and pulled it over his head in one movement, cursing when he realised he had forgotten to open the cuffs. After a bit of fumbling he got rid of the rebellious piece of clothing and saw Sherlock smirking. 

“Stop it!” he huffed.

“Nope!” Sherlock grinned.

“You'll pay for it, Holmes!” John growled playfully.

“That’s what I was hoping for…” Sherlock purred, pushing himself up and cupping the back of John’s head to pull him in for a kiss. John couldn’t resist to follow when Sherlock lay back down. He leaned over him to chase his kiss. Suddenly, Sherlock jerked his own legs up, practically curling in on himself without losing the contact to John’s lips, he hooked his big toes under the waistband to yank down John’s pants. 

“What the fuck… Sherlock!” John gasped.

“We don’t want to get that dirty, do we?” Sherlock said sultry and captured John’s mouth with a kiss again.

“Right. Exactly. Dirty.” John pulled back with difficulties. “We should get started. We’ll never get out of this bed otherwise.” He sat back, nodded a few times to convince himself that he was absolutely able to do this and picked up razor and foam, holding them each in one hand like a scientist about to dissect a specimen. “So, tell me…” he looked expectantly at Sherlock.

“All of it.” Sherlock panted.

"Yeah, we've been over that, right?" John chuckled lamely.

"I mean…," Sherlock puffed out, "the whole area still needs a shave… groin… arse… everything…" 

"Ohhnngg… Sherlock," John grunted, "you're not serious, are you?" 

"Am," the man underneath him simply said. 

"Christ, Sherlock!" John hissed as if Sherlock had just confessed to have kidnapped someone. "Alright, alright." he tried to calm down. "It's nothing," he mumbled to himself while preparing and arranging everything, "can shave a face, can shave an arse, skin and hair, skin and hair, all the same…" 

When he squirted a big blob of shaving foam on the palm of his hand, he paused though and pulled a face.

"Sherlock, you know how this will end, right?" he squinted his eyes. 

"I don't _know_ what will happen, but I certainly know what I would _want_ to happen…" Sherlock purred and wiggled his bum between John's splayed thighs.

"You're insatiable!" John huffed.

"You're one to talk!" Sherlock raised one eyebrow mockingly.

"What happened to 'losing valuable time', huh?" John tilted his head.

"Well… I'd say… make it quick or make it worthwhile, _Captain."_ Sherlock said with a devilish smirk, voice velvety and low.

Stretching his arms over his head, exposing and displaying the entirety of the otherworldly beauty of his body, Sherlock languidly lolled on the sheets. Coquettishly batting his eyelids, he pointedly took hold of the headboard, gripped it tight the way they sometimes did when the cuffs were too far away and the orgasm too close to get up and get them. 

"Sherlock Holmes, you are a bad bad man!!" John growled. Sherlock's grin grew wider and turned even more wickedly. 

"You're just getting that _now_?" he teased John. With the ankles of his still bent legs he pushed against John's arse and made him fall forwards, coming face to face with Sherlock, left John hovering over him. 

"No," John growled dangerously, puffed his hot breath against Sherlock's lips, "it was just a friendly reminder, so later you can't complain that you've found your equal."

Without further warning, he quickly reached down and deftly spread the dollop of shaving foam in one smooth motion from the top of Sherlock's twitching cock, over his balls, his perineum and all the way to the top of his cleft. Eyes blown wide, Sherlock's breath hitched in surprise and he threw his head back and groaned when on its way back, John's deliberately pointed finger caught on the rim of his anus, pressed boldly against his perineum and John's hand ended holding his balls in a firm grip bordering on painful. John rolled Sherlock's balls between the fingers and palm of his hand for a brief moment before sliding upwards and taking a just as tight hold of his penis. He quickly smeared what was left of the foam over Sherlock's shaft never easing his grip, which practically made him wank Sherlock in a frantic pace. Sherlock's erection swelled in John's hand at lightning speed to the point of busting; Sherlock's breathing became erratic and he made little hiccup noises.

"How quick is 'quick', Holmes?" John growled next to Sherlock's ear, voice low, lips brushing the shell. 

A needy whine escaped Sherlock's throat when John stopped the strokes just as sudden as they had started and pulled his hand away. He replaced the touch with his thumb being the only point of contact, pressing sturdily against his perineum, moving in slow circles, massaging his prostate through the throbbing flesh. 

Sherlock moaned, turning his head desperately from side to side on his pillow, his cock oozing precome and pulsing in its abandonment. 

"And what does it take to make it worthwhile, huh?" John said calmly and unfazed.

"John Watson… you're the devil incarnate!" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, opening his eyes, glaring at John. "Satan, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Mephistopheles… all of them!"

"You're still using far too complicated words." John pressed his thumb even firmer down, ran two fingers teasingly over Sherlock's entrance. This elicited a long open mouthed moan from the detective and for a moment it wiped all words, complicated or not, from his mind. The moment John eased the pressure a bit though, he seemed to regain some mental capacities.

"Diable, Teufel, jäkel, duivel, diablo…" Sherlock chanted.

"Oh, still not enough? Going all multilingual on me now?" John pushed just the tip of one finger inside Sherlock and now kneaded the sensitive flesh through his walls, rolling it between finger and thumb, avoiding his prostate just so. 

"Pure… evil…" Sherlock coughed out between ragged breaths.

"Told you so." John whispered in his ear, not faltering in his ministrations. "Your own problem if you still underestimate me." 

"How… are you even… hiding it… under your… ghastly and innocent… jumpers…" Sherlock was barely able to breath and still teasing him, that brat.

"Make that one more on your list to be punished for!" John licked one hot wet stripe up Sherlock's exorbitantly long and enticing neck. Just underneath his earlobe, one of Sherlock's most sensible spots, he latched on and sucked hard.

"No, John, no!" Sherlock squirmed in John's hold, trying to escape the doctor's mouth. "No mark, no mark… please! You're supposed to help me!" he grunted. "You're one of the good guys!" 

John stopped and raised his head. He was well aware that Sherlock couldn't exactly sport fresh hickeys for this case; it hadn't been his intention anyway. He just enjoyed to silence that cocky mouth and to put his Posh Pirate into the pliable and pleading position once in a while.

"Oh darling, I might be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I'm one of them!" John purred dangerously. When Sherlock only huffed, he dove in and bit down on one of Sherlock's nipples; not nearly hard enough to draw blood, but sufficient to make his impudent partner shout and jolt, arching his back.

"Stop it, John. Stop!!!" he shouted.

"Stop teasing me then," John rumbled.

"I will, I will, yes, John, just stop it…" Sherlock rambled.

"Good." John pulled his hand away and sat back again. He picked up the can of shaving foam and looked down on his disheveled lover as if nothing had happened. "Can we go on then?" 

"Yes," Sherlock said, still short of breath. "Just… hurry, will you?" 

"Oh, are we impatient now?" John raised his eyebrows. "Still making demands?" he lowered his chin and studied Sherlock over the rim of his non-existent glasses. 

"Yes. No. Joooohn…" Sherlock whined, helpless and desperate.

"Alright, love, relax." John said soothingly, shedding his captain's character. "You got this. We'll get this done now, yeah? And afterwards, we'll make you pretty and spend a nice evening at a shady night club solving a saucy murder, yeah? Sound good?" 

Sherlock only nodded, John leaned in to give him a tiny peck on the top of his nose and got to work.

He looked at the mess he'd made. He quickly got up and picked a wet flannel to clean his partner from the half dried sticky foam. He took special care of his cock, pulling back the foreskin, exposing the sensitive glans to wipe it carefully clean of the remains of the foam. This goo bursting from unknown chemicals and uncountable perfumes really shouldn't be used as lube… _'Don't try this at home, kids!'_ , John thought, feeling a bit guilty and hoped Sherlock wouldn't suffer any irritation. 

In the meanwhile, Sherlock had laid back, thrown one arm over his eyes and did his utmost best to breathe calmly. When John ran the flannel over his glans, he was still twitching; a little grunt escaping him now and then. 

His never yielding erection was evidence enough though, that his interest hadn’t faltered in the slightest. Neither had John’s; a simmering heat was still throbbing in his cock. In a wordless understanding though, as was common between them, they had settled in companionable endurance of their mutual want to get the job done.

Spreading the fresh shaving foam over Sherlock’s groin area, John cherished the sensuous slide of his hands over the smooth tissue of Sherlock’s lower belly nonetheless. How could he not; he’d never tire of that sensitive pale skin hidden under all those posh clothes, for unknown reasons his to uncover and to worship. He had to rigorously remind himself of the task at hand, not to forget to move on to the razor at some point. Cautiously, he guided the sharp blades over the plains of Sherlock’s body, anxious not to cut him in any of the delicate places. He held his breath, pulse accelerating at the thrill, when he slid the razor over the creases where thighs meet lower belly; the existence of the rapidly pulsing arteries just beneath the thin layer of skin all too present to his doctor’s brain. Sherlock’s breath hitched when John had to fondle his scrotum to get access to the fold to the legs. Sherlock let his legs fall open to the sides even more. John felt them trembling underneath his palms, apparently in a fight against the urge to move, to writhe, to buck his hips. Sherlock’s breath was slow even if stuttering, his lips slightly parted. The tip of the tongue darting out from time to time, running over the plush lips to moisten them, kept distracting John tremendously. He had to concentrate hard to keep his focus on the last remaining bits in need of shaving. _‘Almost done’,_ he calmed and reassured himself, even though he knew he was fooling himself. 

When he finally ran his palms quickly over Sherlock’s front to check for any missing spots, a low groan coming from the top of the mattress made him look up. The sight of Sherlock’s face, contorted in suppressed pleasure, made John cave in and yield to the urge to free the lower lip currently trapped by the teeth biting it. He surged up, his own body sliding in a wave of warm skin over Sherlock’s chilly torso. He pulled Sherlock’s swollen lower lip free with one thumb taking hold of the man’s chin and dove in for a kiss. The moan rumbling deep in Sherlock’s throat could as much have been caused by John’s passionate tongue pushing between his lips as by their equally straining erections sliding against each other due to John's move. The last remaining bit of foam on Sherlock’s freshly shaven skin made it slippery in a way that prevented any friction that might have felt uncomfortable. 

Their cocks lined up, moving against each other in the hot slick space trapped between their bellies, almost drove John out of his mind. Sherlock’s skillful mouth capturing his own, taking over control of their frantic kiss, didn’t help one bit. 

“God, Sherlock. Sherlock…” he broke the kiss, gasped in Sherlock’s searching mouth. “... we have to stop this… I can’t…” but that moment Sherlock had grabbed John’s buttocks with both his large hands and squeezed them boldly to increase the pressure of their pelvises against each other. John exhaled sharply, the spiking pleasure fogging his mind. 

To have some hold in the real world he thread his fingers into Sherlock’s curls. He might have underestimated the force with which he had tucked at them, because Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. However, the fingers digging hard into the muscles of his arse and the wanton thrust pushing their cocks together even firmer indicated that Sherlock didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. 

The fleeting moment of concern though made John surface from the waves of lust, at least enough to regain some of his senses. 

“Sherlock. Stop...” He tried to free himself from Sherlock’s vice-like hold. “This.. was not… the agreement.” He was aware of how weak his protest sounded.

“Don’t know of any agreement…” Sherlock purred, his baritone voice sounded much too smug; the bastard knew exactly what he was doing. When Sherlock started to let his hands roam over John’s backside and one of his fingers slid down John's crease and pushed daringly against the tight ring of muscles of his entrance, John jolted back, sat on his heels, gasping for breaths. Not that he minded, not at all, but if he’d waited one second longer he would have been lost for any conscious thought. 

“But… the case…” he tried to sound somehow reasonable, and failed.

“What case?” Sherlock pouted and glared at him, his gaze piercing and heated, barely resistable. “Don’t know of a case.” 

“Oh… you damn well do.” John huffed, calmed down a bit, amusement settling in again about their ridiculous horniness. How can two full grown men, far beyond their teens, be this desperate for each other. They should be able to keep it in their right now non existent pants for a while. But here they were… “You can’t tell me you could resist the opportunity to become Miss Pirate again. I certainly can’t.” John smirked.

“You want to become Miss Pirate?” Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

“I could never resist _you_ , you… arse,” John laughed, “speaking of… turn over!” He tapped Sherlock’s thigh, moving to the side to give him room to move.

Confronted with Sherlock on his hands and knees, wiggling his back side in front of his face, he gave up all hope of this to be any easier. He took a deep breath and succumbed to his fate. The same ordeal of skin on skin combined with the slick and slide, the heat and shivers was as much a torture and challenge to their restraint as before. The sizzling tension sparking in their touch heightened by the not yet removed hairs prickling the over-sensitive soft skin of John's palms.

After a while, when he inevitably had to move on to the next step, he instructed Sherlock to spread his cheeks for him in a husky voice he didn't quite recognise as his own. Sherlock lowered himself to rest on his chest to have his hands free to reach behind. When he glanced over his shoulder, his pitch black eyes piercing John with a heat that would be able to set ice on fire, a torrent of curses broke free from John's mouth, which he kept up all the way until he had managed the last careful stroke with the razor. 

After that the poor little razor didn't stand a single chance. It got flung to the side, ending abandoned and ignored on the floor next to the bed.

“Oh, fuck it.” John growled.

“I’d rather you fuck me,” said Sherlock, and John wondered how he was still able to sound this posh and cocky when he was splaid open in the most vulnerable way, face flushed, curls sticking to his sweaty forehead, breath shallow.

John darted forward and, without any ado, licked a broad wet stripe over Sherlock’s beautifully displayed entrance. He winced at the bitterness of the shaving foam on his tongue but the surprised gasp and the power to shut that pert mouth up for a moment was absolutely worth it. So he did it again and again, pointing his tongue, flicking and teasing, pressing it firmly against the rim. When there was nothing left of his partner than a muttering and trembling mess, he trailed one long slow path from perineum over Sherlock’s cleft up to his tailbone, lingering a moment, flicking and twirling his tongue over the sensitive spot he knew drove Sherlock crazy. As expected it elicited goosebumps and shivers all over Sherlock’s body and John continued his way upwards to soothe and smooth the tingling skin. Small licks and lewd kisses up his spine made Sherlock moan and squirm and when in the end John reached his nape, blew his hot breath up his neck and sucked on his earlobe, Sherlock all but collapsed onto the mattress, leaving John no choice than to bump onto him, trapping him under his weight. 

They both huffed out their breath in amusement, but the chuckle quickly turned into a groan when John shifted to get a bit of foothold. The full length of his erection resting and pressing between Sherlock’s buttocks, he couldn’t ignore the delicate pressure those illegally plush arse cheeks caused around his cock. Involuntarily, his hips snapped forward to grind against his partner’s arse which made Sherlock shift on the sheets as a result. The frottage caused Sherlock to flex his hips, to rub his straining cock against the mattress desperate for more friction and his rhythmically tensing gluteus muscles were squeezing and trapping John’s cock between them in a way that made John lose all control. They ended in a circle of increasing each other’s stimulation until they were one heap of sweaty skin and flexing muscles and heavy breaths. Sherlock came first, pressing his face into the pillow to silence his deep groan, soiling the sheets beneath him with his release. The seemingly endless shudders, trembles and convulsions of his lover’s aftershocks pushed John over the edge and he followed not long after. His mind blanked and he had to helplessly give over to the waves of pleasure crashing over him. 

They just lay there for a while, panting; John sticking to Sherlock's back who was sticking to the sheets. When John got a bit of his breath back he pressed a tiny kiss to the sweaty nape of his lover and chuckled.

"When will this get better, Sherlock?" he asked with a voice thick from the hormone-high and suppressed laughter.

"Better still?" Sherlock asked, now languidly chuckling himself, and John could feel the vibrations of his low rumbling voice against his chest. "I thought it was pretty fantastic."

"Yeah, me too." John hummed. "But will I ever be able to keep my hands off of you?"

"I certainly hope not!" Sherlock said sincerely and in a rush of warmth flooding his stomach John had to press his lips on his detective's skin again; on his shoulder, on his nape, on his cheek, on his temple; until he reached the corner of his mouth and Sherlock tilted his head a bit so that, in an awkward angle but still, John could steal a kiss from that tempting mouth. 

It made his belly shift on Sherlock's back and he grunted. He broke the kiss and crinkled his nose.

"I think a shower is in order," he said.

"Yes, that might be advisable," Sherlock mumbled. "Get up, old man, and we can go for it."

"Old man," John shrieked and bit playfully down on Sherlock's shoulder. "I thought I just showed you how much of an 'old man' I am!"

"Didn't say anything about virility, _doctor._ " Sherlock smirked and John poked him in his side as a punishment, which made Sherlock jump.

John pushed himself up and pulled a face at the sticky cold mess on his belly. Sherlock turned over and looked up at John; a totally disheveled wreck of a man. 

"Come on," Sherlock said and ran his fingers through John's greying hair, "let's get that shower, _my_ old man!" And it sounded so tender and loving that John's heart swell with affection and he once again realised that he was devoted to this whirlwind of a man with everything he was, with heart and soul; captured without a chance to escape. Not that he wanted to; he'd gladly live his life chained to Sherlock Holmes. 

"Do you think it's wise if we both…" he hesitantly asked. But Sherlock only laughed, practically jumped from the bed and tugged John up by his wrists to pull him along to the bathroom.

"I might be the youngster between the two of us, but I think it's safe to say that this shower won't be endangered by anyone's libido…" he still laughed, when he started the shower, waited for the water to get warm, stepped into the tub and held out his hand for John to follow him.

They showered quickly and efficiently, toweled each other dry, grinning like infatuated teenagers and headed back to the bedroom to finally dress up and get ready for the evening. 

Sherlock pulled off the soiled sheets and then laid out his costume on the mattress. Seeing Sherlock handling all the lace and velvet and leather, made John's pulse speed up in joyous anticipation. But Sherlock also pulled a box from the depths of his cupboard John had never seen before. John frowned and walked over to him. 

"What's all… that?" John glimpsed suspiciously into the box when Sherlock lifted the lid.

"This is what makes a queen out of a detective." Sherlock said hushed. 

With pointed fingers John pulled item after item out of the box, eyed them, appraising them. Sherlock let him, an expression mixed of anxiety and stubbornness in his face. 

"What's it all for?" John glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye.

"Which one in particular?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding flat and empty. Cautious? Defensive?

John lifted an innocent looking bag of strips and skin coloured tissues and cloths. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Well, that's for tucking." he stated. When John raised his eyebrows, he continued. "That's when a man hides his genitals for a female appearance, in this case a flat crotch..." he rattled, "which is achieved by using the inguinal tubes to hide your testis internally to then tuck your penis tightly backwards and…" 

"Yes, alright, okay,..." John cleared his throat, cheeks slightly flushed. "I can imagine."

"No, I think, you really can't." said Sherlock flatly.

"So… you… are you… do you…"

"John." Sherlock huffed.

"Need my help? Is what I wanted to say…" he rushed out, although it was obvious that it definitely hadn't been the case. "That why you… you shaved? The tape, I mean? What would I… how..." John wanted to slap himself for the way he was babbling unable to hide his uneasiness.

"John, I really don't know why you, always proudly proclaiming to be a doctor, would be uncomfortable handling my genitals, most of all considering all the other things you don't seem to mind doing to and with my body. You do realise that you just a moment ago immensely enjoyed letting your _tongue_ lick and invade my _anus_ , which is on a purely medical basis much more…" 

"Yeah, stop, I get it!" John, whose face was beet red by now, shouted to interrupt his partner in his lecture. "I think it's more… I don't like the thought of it… for you." he added sheepishly. He cautiously looked at Sherlock, whose expression softened slightly. 

"I can ease your mind, I don't particularly like tucking either. If possible, I try to avoid it." Sherlock seemed to avoid John's eyes when he pulled one peculiar garment out of the pile. It was a kind of slip with skin coloured female bits attached to it on the front. John raised one eyebrow. 

"This," Sherlock continued, "is the alternative. There's room to hide the cock in a pocket and you pull it over to cover, so you're at least imitating a female anatomy between your legs."

"So, that's what you're going for?" John tried to handle all this weirdness as stoically as his soldier self expected him to do. 

"No."

"No? Are there more…"

"I like to not hide at all. I don't like to pretend to be someone I'm not. And I don't identify as female nor as non-binary, genderfluid or any other not definitely male gender." 

A silence fell between them. John had difficulties to process it all. He didn't think himself prudish or ignorant, but obviously he still had a lot to learn. Apparently there was a lot more to his pirate than just leather and lace and blinky whimpers. 

"But when we met…" he tried to sort his thoughts, "that club we went to, where you danced… you, uhm, tucked there, right? No way you could have..." He frowned. "All those blokes I've been with, they went there for "the girls"..." he mimicked the quotes. "I know for a hundred percent that they're not gay. If they'd even spotted a glimpse of… I mean, it's not particularly easy to hide, is it?" he went for a joke, winked and nodded in the direction of Sherlock's crotch.

Luckily Sherlock smirked and the tense atmosphere eased a bit. 

"You'd be surprised about straight men, John." he said suggestively. "Even if they actually _know_ that most of the Queens aren't trans women and the men performing drag aren't necessarily gay, they nonetheless indulge in a kink they'd never confess openly, most likely not even to themselves. Most of them see but do not observe. The eye sees what the mind wants to see. And erases every detail interfering with that image."

John felt caught out. Hadn't he himself thought Sherlock to be a woman until that eye-opening lap dance? As if he had read John's thoughts, Sherlock grinned fiendishly.

"And as much effect as, I have to admit, you have on me, Captain," he said sultry, "I don't think even _you_ would have had the power to untuck my dick by the sheer force of Watson-hotness…" 

With that Sherlock reached for the lace panties and pulled them up until they clung to his arse and his groin like a second skin. He adjusted his flaccid penis to point up.

"More comfortable around Captains." Sherlock winked, but John felt something sharp surge through his intestines. _He_ was the only Captain that had the right to come anywhere near Sherlock. He got sick at the sudden thought of how many "captains" Sherlock might have had before him. 

Shaking his head to get rid of the disturbing thoughts he became aware that Sherlock had already begun to fasten his suspender belt. The sight caused completely different feelings to coil in his stomach. The moment Sherlock was about to get busy with the stockings, John quickly snatched them from the bed and held them out of Sherlock's reach. 

"Let me," John said, low and small, when Sherlock looked puzzled. 

Sherlock nodded silently and John knelt at his feet and pulled one of them forwards to rest on his thigh. Without another word, John carefully crumpled the unbelievably thin fabric in his hands to then gently push it over Sherlock's toes and tenderly slide it up the flawless and smooth skinned and endlessly long legs, until his hands came to a halt high on Sherlock's thigh. He flattened the seam and after one last stroke over the edge where flesh and fabric met he sat back and marveled at the masterpiece in front of him. 

"John," whispered Sherlock, and when John lifted his gaze, the man towering over him was obviously moved.

"Okay?" he asked, more content and reassured now. "What's next?"

He got up again and looked at Sherlock with a weird mix of anticipation and excitement battling in his chest. Sherlock silently pointed at something that looked like an oversized skin-coloured bib with boobs attached to it. 

"It's called a breastplate," Sherlock explained before John had the chance to ask. "There are various types and options and, well, sizes."

"But you just said something about not pretending to be someone…" John wondered but was quickly interrupted by Sherlock.

"I prefer the silhouette and the fit of the women's corsets over the ones for men. Much more aesthetic." He nodded to himself. "Something remotely shaped as secondary female sexual characteristics is required." 

"Tits, you mean." John deadpanned.

"If you want…" Sherlock seemed to dislike the thought of it. 

Nonetheless he arranged the breastplate and fixed it behind his neck. John tilted his head and wrinkled his brow, watching Sherlock push and squeeze those fake boobs to get them in place. 

"You seemed to like it well enough when you saw me on stage. I deduced your attraction to these breasts immediately." Sherlock commented, never faltering in his efforts.

"Well, that was when I still thought you were a woman. I'd like those on a woman." John said. Sherlock rummaged in the pile until he pulled out the lace blouse. He fiddled with it so that John already feared for its appearance on stage. 

"Do you miss...?" Sherlock suddenly asked, slow and somewhat shy.

"Miss what?" John had missed the cue somehow.

"Breasts." Sherlock made clear.

"What? Why?" John was taken aback. "Why would I?" 

"Because I'm not a woman." Sherlock shrugged, apparently insecure and self-conscious.

"Yes, I'm very _very_ aware of that, you know?!" John said, turning towards Sherlock and pulling him into a hug. The breasts pushing against his chest making a confusing contrast to the low rumbling hum next to his ear. 

"And I love that! And I enjoy it! And I won't have it any other way! I hope you know that!" he said sternly, holding Sherlock's gaze unrelentingly. "You do, don't you?" 

"Yes, I do. But you're still bi and sometimes I wonder…"

"Oh no, not that bullshit!" John spat, annoyed. Disappointed? "Sherlock, you're really above that nonsense!! You don't really…"

"Sorry." Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry, John. It's just… All this," he gestured around himself, "reminded me of how much you enjoyed it — me being the pirate. And it made me wonder if you'd secretly want me to be more feminine or dress up for you or…"

"Sherlock, stop it. Right there." John reached for Sherlock's face and held it in both hands. "I enjoy seeing you all dressed up in this lace and velvet and purple and eyeliner," a shiver ran down his spine. "But not, because I want you to look like a woman. Or because I somehow mind you being a man. I just… like it." He shrugged. "And part of it is that I enjoy knowing it's _you_ underneath all those tits and bits… literally." He smirked and an answering grin spread on Sherlock's face. "So, don't you dare to be insecure about that gorgeous pirate you're turning into and who is still very much my Sherlock." 

"How can you be so sure?" Sherlock frowned.

"I know the real you. And you'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it." John pulled one eyebrow up.

"Love what?"

"Being Miss Pirate." John grinned.

"I don't even know what's that supposed to mean." Sherlock chuckled.

"Oh, you nutter," John pulled Sherlock in for a kiss. "You're Miss Pirate, wear the damn costume!" he chuckled and pinched Sherlock's bum. 

The man jerked, but laughed and the air was cleared again from all dust from a past long ago, remnants of a life they both had left behind the moment they had first laid eyes on each other.

The blouse in place, John helped Sherlock to put on the corset. It was a challenge to close all the hooks and buttons. Sherlock pulled in his belly and stretched as good as possible, John grunted and groaned tugging and pulling on the purple velvet.

"What a torture, Sherlock!" he murmured. 

"Wait for the laces." Sherlock grunted. "That's what I need you for."

" _That's_ what you need me for?" John huffed in disbelief. Sherlock looked a bit lost.

"I told you so. It's easier to put on the costume with extra helping hands."

"So, all that… shaving," John asked in disbelief, "you could have done that alone?"

"Obviously." Sherlock said cheekily, the corner of his mouth twitching as John glared at him. "I didn't get the impression that it was a burden for you to help though…"

John stared some more and then doubled over, laughing until he had tears in his eyes.

"You… you absolute…" he looked at Sherlock and saw the childish joy twinkling in his eyes. "God, I love you!" rushed out of him. "Don't you ever doubt that." 

Their lips met slowly and the tender kiss they shared in relish lacked any hint of heat but was filled with warmth and comfort and love.

When they broke apart, the sight of Sherlock in his full attire, only lacking the heels, fully sank into John's consciousness for the first time; the body Miss Pirate, the face still his detective it suddenly made the metamorphosis, the fusion much more tangible. 

The same thrill he had felt at the club, when he had felt the press of Sherlock's lace-covered erection against his own denim clad one for the first time, now made his nervous system buzz with impatient anticipation. He couldn't wait to see the whole of it. Miss Pirate in all their glory.

"When will you…" apparently he had stared open mouthed without realising, because he was a bit hoarse. He cleared his throat. "I mean the make-up… Do you need help there as well?"

"No, I'd rather do that on my own. Wrong order anyway, have to be careful with the dress not to run it with the powder and stuff…" he wrinkled his nose. "I'll just have to put on the gown, I guess." 

"Okay then. Go ahead, don't let me stop you." John turned to get comfortable on the bed to watch Sherlock, but the man stopped him.

"No, I'd rather not have you here at all."

"Why not?" John asked, a bit disappointed. To see those sparkling eyes get framed and accentuated by black and purple… he wouldn't have minded.

"You know carps?" Sherlock asked. John was puzzled by the sudden leap.

"Uhm, yes, of course. If you mean the fish at least…"

"Well, applying eye make-up makes one look like a carp with a seizure. I don't desire you witnessing that." he said totally unfazed. "Better go, dress yourself. I've prepared everything you need in the room upstairs."

With that John was dismissed and made his way up the stairs. What he found there was a suit he probably couldn’t afford in a lifetime. Perfectly tailored of course, bringing out his characteristics in all the right ways. It was matched to Sherlock's purple dress in a discreet but intimate kind of way; dark purple shirt with a somewhat lighter purple jacket topped off with lapels of black velvet, which went remarkably well with his greying hair and made it somehow seem like a desirable attribute. The snuggly fitting trousers clinging to his arse much tighter than he was used to, but nonetheless comfortable due to the exquisite fabric John didn’t know the name of. To his absolute horror though, the finishing touch to the look were slippers which sparkled in silver and purple and black glitters. He eyed them sceptically, but doubted that Sherlock would accept any other suggestion; least of all if it’d be John’s.

The last remaining item laid out by Sherlock was a jar with old fashioned pomade. John sighed. Right, Sherlock had nagged him more than once about his outgrowing hair, but honestly… who cared? Now with the ongoing pandemic, sitting indoors all day every day with only your partner and your housekeeper… well, your not-housekeeper… to witness; why would he go through the ordeal of an appointment at the hairdresser? And after the disaster some weeks ago he sure as hell wouldn’t let Sherlock get anywhere near his hair. Not for styling that is… So he snatched the jar, trudged down the stairs and sneaked into the bathroom to slick back his hair. 

He examined himself in the mirror for a long while. The man looking back at him was nothing like the jumper wearing worn out army doctor he had been half an hour ago. He looked… good, admittedly. But it didn’t feel like him. A flicker of insecurity slithered into the narrow gap between approval and dismissal battling inside his mind; is this what Sherlock would like him to look like? Is this the John Watson he’d rather want to look at? _‘Well, nothing better to find out than to… uhm, find out’_ , John thought, straightened his shoulders and entered their bedroom.

If anyone would have watched from the outside, they would have had the pleasure to witness two men gaping at each other as if they’d seen another human being for the first time in their life. If it would have been a movie, one would have wondered if the disc was damaged or the stream was stuck, because there was not a single movement in the room. After a while it could have been mistaken for a waterworld documentary as they both opened and closed their mouth like the carps Sherlock had tried to avoid. 

In the end Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath at the same moment John started to speak.

“I look ridiculous.” Was what came out of his mouth, because he couldn’t quite find words to react to the ethereal being in front of him.

“John,” the deep baritone, so contradictory to the almond eyed beauty with lashes to fan oneself with, said dismissively. “I know many words to describe how you look right now, but believe me, ridiculous is definitely not one of them.”

Sherlock walked over to where John was still hovering. His legs already decorated up until right above his knee with the laces of his insanely high heels, which made him sway his hips with every step he took. John got a bit lightheaded just watching him walk. That was very promising for when he would see him on stage again. Probably he’d just go up in flames, problem solved. Jeez… 

Sherlock ran his fingers with dark coloured nails along John’s lapel and hummed. 

“Nice,” he purred and stretched the hiss like a snake, which sent a shiver down John’s spine. He looked down at John with his dark rimmed eyes, the dark purple eyeshadow accentuating the colour-shifting irises, making them gleam like fireflies in a night sky.

"Fuck, Sherlock, your eyes. This case will kill me!" John grunted.

"That's rather what I intend to avert," Sherlock held John's gaze and John thought he might drown in them.

"Keep looking at me like that," John winced, "and we have to take two different cabs. Otherwise that dress of yours won't survive until we reach the club." 

"That wouldn't be advisable as we don't know yet how long it will be needed." Sherlock released John with his hands and his eyes and took a step back.

Without further warning Sherlock turned and strutted to the living room, picked up things John didn’t know they owned from drawers John didn’t know existed, put them all in a travelbag and grabbed his coat from the rack.

“Come on, John. The game is on!” He called over his shoulder and off he was like the whirlwind John loved, flying down the stairs. 

John already feared he wouldn’t be able to catch up as he quickly went back to snatch his gun from their chest of drawers, when a very familiar cooing voice and an even more familiar grumbling one wavered up the stairs. He made his way down in time to see Mrs. Hudson engulfed Sherlock in an embrace. The man pulled a face as if he was contaminated with toxic waste. Although, _that_ he probably would mind less.

“Look at youuuuu, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson fussed. “Ooohh, so lovely, your pirate is back! I already wondered how long until you’d miss it. You're gorgeous! He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” She now addressed John.

“Yes, he is! Absolutely!” John nodded enthusiastically.

“Did you finally tell John? I’m soooo glad!" Sherlock blushed and John frowned. 

"Actually, we have to hurry, Mrs Hudson. I'm sorry. But we're just on our way to the club." Sherlock said apologetic but also kind of evasively, John thought.

"Awww, that’s my girl," Mrs Hudson cooed. "I taught you well, sweetheart. Make me proud!” She made an attempt to pad Sherlock's cheek but he flinched away and bolted for the door. 

"Look after him, will you?" Mrs Hudson asked quietly and turned towards John.

"Of course! Of course I will." John reassured her and earned the cheek-pad Sherlock had avoided, before the tiny woman vanished behind the door to her flat again.

At the other end of the hallway Sherlock indulged in a major eye-roll which was even more dramatic now framed by dark lashes. 

John watched him for a moment; how he stood there, Miss Pirate covered by the detective's coat. Such a contradictory and at the same time well-balanced picture. Until John realised, this… this was the essence of Sherlock Holmes; the unconventional inconsistencies were what completed this sparkling firework of a man.

"John!" Sherlock called, pulling John back into the moment, already reaching for the door handle. "Do you have your gun?” 

When John pulled it quickly from the waistband at his back and held it up in a nonchalant way that showed how at ease he was with it, Sherlock's pupils dilated and he stared hungrily at John as if he wanted to devour him. 

"Maybe those two cabs weren't such a bad idea after all," he growled dark and dangerous, opened the front door and set foot into the outside world. 

And just like that the reality of it all hit John like a punch in the face. Miss Pirate was back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the last chapter I forgot to mention that those ridiculous mascara brands really exist! So here's a link for those of you who want mascara that is [ "Better Than Sex" 😜](https://www.toofaced.com/product/23484/59115/eye-makeup/mascara/better-than-sex-mascara/1-selling-prestige-mascara-in-america) or if you rather share John's preferences, here's such a [extended-giga-play-thing](https://www.maccosmetics.com/product/13839/24962/products/makeup/eyes/mascara/extended-play-gigablack-lash-mascara)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Just for fun: does anyone know where I got the inspiration for John's fancy slippers from? 😉
> 
> * * *
> 
> On a more serious note: here you can find information on tucking, but also binding and other non-surgical options to alter your physics according to your gender. 
> 
> [Binding, Packing, Tucking & Padding](http://www.phsa.ca/transcarebc/care-support/transitioning/bind-pack-tuck-pad<Binding,)
> 
> And please folks: inform yourself about a HEALTHY and SAFE way to tuck and bind and all the stuff you might need!! This is EXTREMELY IMPORTANT for your health and comfort!! Stay safe, lovelies!! 💕  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Here you can find informations on breastplates  
> ["Which breastplate is right for me"](https://eleascloset.com/pages/which-breastplate-is-right-for-me)
> 
> and if you want a no-show for your cock but don't want to tuck either, something like this might be your friend:  
> [silicon panties](https://m.alibaba.com/product/62364451587/Shemale-Panty-Drag-Queen-False-silicone.html)  
> or this one here:  
> [vagina panties](https://thedragqueencloset.com/collections/padding?page=2') (this is also a store for all your other drag/shape altering needs) and also this shop here:  
> [www.trans-missie.com](https://www.trans-missie.com/en/) (which offers supplies and clothing for all trans gender persons)
> 
> * * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which John is confronted with his new persona, with old friends of Miss Pirate, with an unpleasant first meeting and a very pleasant reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> just FYI: I upped the chapter count. Which could have been expected actually, because… well… it's me. That's what I do... 😆  
> I hope you don't mind...
> 
> Lots of love,  
> me 💕

In the back of the cab Sherlock was unusually quiet. He kept staring out of his window and only answered in one-syllables to John’s admittedly forced chatter. John was a bit nervous about what to expect and Sherlock’s silence wasn’t exactly helpful. Also, the cabby threw them suspicious glances through the rear mirror. Strangely though, it wasn’t Sherlock, all dressed up, who was eyed the most, but John who felt as if the man kept an eye on him. _‘Typically London’_ , John thought, _‘gorgeous drag queen goes unnoticed; harmless bloke_ — _suspicious!’_ He rolled his eyes and glared at the cabby until the man swallowed, clamped his steering wheel and averted his eyes; concentrating solely on the traffic. 

“So,” John droped the attempt to distract them with useless chitchat, “what did Mrs Hudson mean when she said she taught you?” 

He pulled one knee up on the seats and turned towards the mute man next to him. Sherlock seemed to tense a bit and pulled his coat tighter around himself. He shrugged, but it failed to look as casual as probably intended. 

“You don’t think I was born knowing how to dance like this, do you?” Sherlock told his window.

“No, probably not,” John kept his voice purposefully light. “Wouldn’t have made an appropriate impression in primary school, I guess.” John grinned at the image of little Sherlock dressed up as a pirate, dancing over the tables in his classroom to offend the teachers.

“Well, the impression I left wasn’t appropriate nonetheless.” Sherlock smirked and finally threw John an amused glance.

“But seriously though,” John frowned and tilted his head. “Hudders?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about our landlady, John. You’d be surprised.” Sherlock said quietly. When he realised that John wouldn’t let that question go, he sighed and continued. “You remember that late Mr Hudson was the head of a drug cartel, right?” He waited for John’s confirming nod. “Then you realise that Mrs H had to take part in it in _some_ way. A devoted housewife joining a book club doesn’t go exactly well with the boisterous life of a drug lord.” Sherlock’s voice was mocking.

“I wouldn’t know,” John interrupted, a bit annoyed but also a bit unsettled about the familiarity and ease with which Sherlock seemed to talk about it. Because honestly… What did he himself know of that part of society? Next to nothing, even after all this time of seeing the battlefield that where the streets of London at Sherlock’s side. But Sherlock only raised a doubting eyebrow at him. “Yeah, well, I can imagine…” John shrugged in defeat. How could he not, Sherlock always assumed the facts the genius had figured out would be magically transferred into Jon’s brain. There was some kind of telepathy between them though, but mostly that was related to when to pull a gun or when to giggle at a crime scene and when to better get home before things became indecent.

“Mrs H was an excotic dancer in one of the clubs he owned. Therefore she was excellently suited to help me set up a routine.” Sherlock stated matter of fact, as if that wasn’t something that left John baffled and doubting everything he thought he knew about that woman, his life, the universe and existence in general.

“Our sweet and lovely, tea making, scones baking, not your housekeeper Mrs Hudson?” John gaped.

“Oh, come off it, John,” Sherlock huffed, “who’d expect a war hero, extremely skilled doctor, crack shot and a sex god behind your boring everyman’s appearance?”

“Oi,” John raised his voice and slapped Sherlock’s thigh. The cabby quickly looked alarmed over his shoulder, but apparently considered keeping his eyes on the traffic more important.

“Boring?” John went on. “You didn’t seem to find it very boring earlier today!” 

“I said _appearance_ , John! That doesn’t say _anything_ about who you really are. And that’s what matters.” The look he gave John was all the confirmation John needed to know the depth of the man’s feelings for him. Little hyperactive butterflies took over the space where his gut should have been. “I always told you your look doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock added snootily, turned again and just like that his butterflies turned into a swarm of bees; they were nice enough, but some of them stung. 

He tried not to think too hard about it and settled against the backrest again. 

“So, you think I’m a sex god then?” he asked, a smug grin on his face.

“The only reason I put up with an old man like you!” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched mirthfully when he turned his face back to look out of the window.

Sherlock instructed the cabby to drop them in a shady back alley somewhere in Soho John had never been before. There was only one door to be seen and Sherlock nodded faintly in its direction. _‘Okay, here we go then.’_ He felt uneasiness but also excitement creeping up his back and prickle in his neck when he stepped out of the car. Straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders he walked around the car. He handed the cabby some notes through his lowered window before he put his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back to guide him towards the door. When they turned to leave the cabby cleared his throat.

"Uhm… miss? I don't want to overstep, but…" he cautiously watched John from the corner of his eyes, "... are you safe?"

John was impressed by the courage of the man to speak up even though he wasn't exactly sure what he was referring to.

"He's not a threat," Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John with an unfamiliar trilled glimmer and undeniable heat in them. "He's… escort." Sherlock’s eyes flipped back to the man in the cab who nodded slowly, pursing his lips.

“Ah, I see…” He still seemed suspicious but settled back in his seat, lifted one hand in a quick salute to indicate his retreat. “Still, take care, miss!” He spared John one last glance and drove off.

John was stunned into silence. Apparently he had misjudged the impression his current look made on people. He was partly flattered, partly embarrassed by it. He didn't like to intimidate people; except when they tried to kill Sherlock or they were Mycroft Holmes. But it would probably serve the purpose for this case. He sniffed and looked up at Sherlock who studied him intensely.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked, a bit guarded.

“Sure,” John said with more confidence than he felt. “Off you go, Miss Pirate. Wouldn’t wanna miss your cue!” And they made their way through the eerily quiet street.

The instant they opened the door, the silence around them burst into life, as if it was a magical portal to a parallel universe. As if to prove this image right, the very moment Sherlock set foot into the narrow hallway it was as if he changed shape, pulled over a mask; only it wasn’t a disguise—John could see that—it was still him, but different. 

The buff security guy guarding what seemed to be the back entrance of a club just nodded at Sherlock in apparent recognition and let him pass unhindered, but crossed his arms and looked down at John when he followed in obvious warning not to cause trouble. Jeez, what had he gotten himself into. 

Sherlock moved totally unimpressed through the corridors but John’s eyes almost popped out of his head seeing all the people crowding them. There were… dancers?... in different states of undress. Or dress? He couldn’t tell. Other staff members; maybe from behind the bar? Waiters? No, probably not waiters. Surely some of them for tech stuff, considering there would be dancing, thus music, light and John had no idea what else would be needed. Also, the occasional guy all pimped-up with gold chains around their necks and whatnot. John scrutinised them dismissively until he realised that nobody looked at him twice, he seemed to blend in perfectly in the crowd. Yeah, alright, he really needed to get the hang in this new role. _‘Watson, you can do this! So, soldier, be a perfect… whatever… for your Miss Pirate!’_

He was pulled out of his thoughts by an ear-piercing squee and an all too familiar low rumbling laughter. It was just… He wouldn’t have expected to hear that kind of laughter here. He already wanted to turn to look for his partner, starting to call, “Sher…” over the heads of people, when Sherlock glared at him angrily and turned to ignore him completely. _‘Nope, Mister… uhm… Miss, we won’t have this!’_ and he strode angrily to Sherlock’s side with the intent to stay there for the duration of the entire evening. Or longer. Or possibly, forever!

“ _Elle!!! You’re back!_ ” squeaked the tiny woman with brightly red dyed hair and just as bright red lips.

John turned to look at whose presence had delighted her so much, but startled when he heard the same dark voice practically purr next to him.

“Hello, darling…” Sherlock smiled warmly at her and held his arms out to engulf her in a hug she accepted without hesitation. 

John gaped at them, dumbstruck. Sherlock… knew her? Willingly hugging her? What did she mean, he’s back? And… _Elle_? What the actual fuck!? He wanted to ask all that, but what came out was,

“Darling?” He wasn’t exactly sure though where the snarl had come from with which it escaped his mouth. 

The fragile but very lively woman jolted back and stared at him, wide eyed. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t want to…” she stammered, “... I didn’t mean to… this is nothing serious… I mean, it’s purely platonic, collegial, …” 

When John apparently didn’t react the way she had been anxious about, she relaxed a bit and turned towards Sherlock again. She slapped him playfully on his corset covered belly.

“Didn’t know you had company, Elle,” she said wonderous but good-naturedly. “Wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

She eyed John for a moment, scanning him, trying to figure him out. John raised his chin, trying to look nonchalant and fully in control of the situation; when actually he was completely out of his depth.

“So, you’re her…” redhead prompted cautiously and studied John curiously.

“He’s my…” Sherlock hesitated, looked at John, estimating, apparently unable to judge his mood. Good, because John didn’t even know what mood he was in himself. “He’s my… John.” Sherlock settled for.

John hadn’t expected the laugh the woman huffed out. She quickly caught herself though and cleared her throat.

“Right, so, who’s the one getting the money here? You or him?” She teasingly raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who looked a bit confused first before a blush coloured his usually pale skin.

John frowned. What had he missed? When it hit him, he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. God, he was so used to his name being... well… his name, that he didn’t immediately draw the connection to… other meanings that were given to the word.

“That’s not what it… it’s not like that…” he tried to set things straight, but the redhead interrupted him and only smirked.

“Yeah, right, it never is…” With a disdainful glare she scanned him from top to toe before she hooked her arm with Sherlock’s and pulled him along. “Come on, love, you’re late. Time to prepare yourself.”

Ah, John's tiny lizard brain struggled, not exactly the most calming choice of words. He’d rather not think about Sherlock preparing himself right now. Probably not what she meant though. At least, John hoped not…

He followed them, but reaching one of the doors he was stopped by redhead’s glare. 

“Strictly girls’ area here! Sorry, big boy.” she said and stepped through the door, together with Sherlock, who didn’t spare John a single glance, striding proudly on his insanely high heels, bag slung over his shoulders. The door closed and gone he was, curls and coat and corset and all. 

_'Honestly? Big boy?'_ John huffed. Well, _that_ was a low blow! _'Low… har har… we're funny today, aren't we, stupid brain? Would you kindly shut the fuck up?'_ John didn't have a problem with his height — well, he did, but not since he met Sherlock; Sherlock gave him the feeling that it didn't matter, at all. But being mocked about it was still a sore spot; he had been bullied enough in his younger days. He was properly done with it. However a low _blow_ for his big boy—jeez, major internal eye-roll—... hmmmm, that was something different altogether. Although, preferably not provided by Mrs Pesky Redhead but rather by her gorgeous companion. He should keep that in mind for later... the thought of plush deep purple lips wrapped around his erection… no, not bad. Not bad at all… 

He sighed, half pleased by that image, half frustrated about the situation. Where was Sherlock? What was he doing? Was he safe? What if Sherlock needed him and he wouldn't know? They were on a case after all! John didn’t like that one bit, losing sight of his Pirate, not knowing what was going on. Yes, fine… girls’ area didn’t sound too threatening. But what was there possibly to still be prepared anyway. Hadn’t they done all that at home already? And what was he supposed to do now, huh? Stupid case!

Fuming, he stomped through the corridors, people shying away from him without him noticing. Being left in the dark like this was simply not on. And it hurt more than just a bit to be dismissed like that, too. He felt like a pouting kid, from whom someone had snatched away his favourite toy. _‘My Pirate’_ , he thought. _‘Not fair! Give him back!’_

Finding himself a bit ridiculous, he took a deep breath and tried to consider what Sherlock needed him to do. Taking position backstage, so to speak, he peeked through the gaps into the actual club. It wasn’t much different from the club they had met in, a mix of dance floor, bar, dimly lit nooks and space for an audience. Probably they were all the same in some way even though they tried to stand out by ambience, music, themes, audience, level of luxury. But at the end of the day, it was all about the same thing—booze and sex. Admittedly, he enjoyed both those things for himself, but not related to Sherlock and clubs. Well, okay, not entirely true… Sherlock and clubs and he himself being _behind_ the stage instead of in front of it. 

After a while, the atmosphere in the club changed, the lights dimmed, people started to gather in front of the stage. _'Okay then, let the game begin!'_ If only he knew what kind of game it was. Pimps and dancers and somewhere in between a murder, that’s all he knew. Nothing out of the ordinary really... He realised that he had been lost deep in thought when the music and flickering lights of the first act seeped into his awareness. Shit, he needed to pay more attention. What if he missed something? His eyes started roaming the club, trying to pierce the dark in the corners, scanning the faces of the public, but came up with nothing. Sherlock was so much better at this; he’d probably deduced the hell out of everyone in that audience — every petty affair and suppressed sexuality and saucy kink. All he could see was... _‘oh, look, I_ deduce _these guys are all going to the clubs to watch dancers… uhhhh, that’s suspicious!’_ Damn, he could really need some help here! What if he missed something? Most important: he _really_ couldn’t afford to miss the acts, could he now? 

He leaned against a pillar and settled lasciviously to enjoy the show. Since he had to spend his night here anyway, he could make the best of it, right? As much effort as the ladies on stage made to bewitch their audience, John’s thoughts kept wandering to one particular long limbed, dark haired, in velvet leather and lace clad Purple Pirate. He surprised himself in how little he was affected by the display of most seductive and saucy moves and dresses and undresses on that stage. They were enjoyable enough, but they all had one shortcoming—they were not Sherlock. 

The evening went on, the dancers changed, John’s mood didn’t. He watched it all a bit detached, still pondering the question of what would be his task in this case. Did Sherlock need him to come into action somehow? Make random contact? Keep an eye on someone in particular? Did Sherlock already have a suspect? A suspicion? Any kind of clue? Dammit, why hadn’t he briefed him a bit better? Like this he had nothing to go on with. The only thing left to do for him was to watch.

By now more than a bit bored he called himself to attention, wondering if he should sneak over to the bar and get himself a drink. He hadn’t even averted his eyes from the stage for a fraction of a second, when a familiar sound of creaking wood and roaring wind pierced his attention. He spun around with a speed that almost gave him whiplash and all of a sudden his boredom had gone up in smoke. His heart pounded in his ears and his lungs decided to forego oxygen. Apparently with immediate effect on his brain, because… A case? Case, who? Other dancers? When? Where? He wouldn’t know… 

All he knew was that, until this moment, he hadn’t realised how much he had needed and missed what was now right in front of him. He had been a drowning man for the last year, desperate to drink in the sight of his Pirate back on stage—tall, proud, confident, stunningly beautiful and sexy as hell. 

It was one of those moments when time lost all relativity and accumulated into one indefinable nonsensical knot; it passed in a flash and stretched endlessly. Their first meeting could have been yesterday or an eternity ago, the future approached much too quick and couldn’t start fast enough.

John wasn’t sure if it was part of Sherlock’s routine not to move or if time had just conveniently stopped. Actually he didn’t care. All he did care about was that he had opportunity enough to revel in the sight of the gorgeous creature in front of him on stage; dimly lit by orange spotlight on the one side and a green one on the other; the colours alternatingly fading in and out, creating a transcendent and surreal air around Miss Pirate whose purple dress was oddly accentuated by the light. As if it was popping out, a hologram. John was almost tempted to reach out with his hand to see if Miss Pirate was physical or just a projected image. The fog suddenly wavering around her ankles didn’t help one bit to let the ethereal creature appear any more real. She was the adored heroine out of his most fantastic dream; a dream that had become his life.

Now John realised what the contents of the travel bag had been. Of course! How could he have missed. The finishing touch to turn the stunning Queen into Miss Pirate. On top of the meticulously styled curls rested the extravagant tricorn hat John had found so ridiculous in the very beginning. There was nothing really he had found ridiculous about this Pirate not much later. The effect seemed to last, because he had to swallow against a sudden dry mouth only from studying the hat alone; opulently decorated with glittering silver braid and feather and all, playfully shoved to the back of the head. Surely allowing the curls, which looked smooth and shiny and with an even warmer tint than usual to the deep dark chocolate colour, to fall seductively over the stunning face’s brow. John could only imagine—oh, how he could imagine—as Miss Pirate was facing away from him. 

This left him with the glorious view of the ringlets peeking out from under the hat ending in that endearing nape curl he loved to run his fingertips over when he was kissing Sherlock. His gaze was drawn to the sharp contrast of black lace covering pale skin where the long irresistible-to-kiss neck merged into the finely muscled planes of the upper back. The slender arms held up over the head stretched the lean torso and it appeared even more slim and trim, accentuated by the lace crisscrossing down the back, holding together the delicate purple corset, forcefully tightened by his own hands earlier this evening. John’s mind helpfully—or not so helpfully—added the memory of how he had run his hands along Sherlock’s sides, warmed by Sherlock’s body heat, his breath pushing gently against his hands in a slow rhythm. The tingling of the soft velvet on his palms interrupted by the slightly scratchy sensations of silvery embroidery and black lace, which looked now, in the light of the stage, even more glamorous than back in their bedroom. 

John’s roaming gaze, which had followed his thoughts, halted, because _that_ had definitely not been there in their bedroom. He remembered it though, how could he not; now in plain view resting against the bulge Sherlock’s perfect arse formed underneath the only just covering black leather and purple lace layered backside of the skirt—the saber. Fixed at the Pirate’s slim waist, slightly crooked it nestled perfectly along the curve of the all too familiar backside, pointing towards—naahhh, not thinking of that now. Knowing what he would find there John’s eyes flickered to the other side of said waist but he was surprised nonetheless. Yes, there were handcuffs dangling just as expected. But these were not the old ones, probably found in a ratty antique store, John remembered from Miss Pirate's last performance. These were shiny, these were modern. These also weren't from a store but nicked from a certain DI of New Scotland Yard. John knew, because these handcuffs used to live in their salad drawer. Heaven knew why there, but they did. John didn’t object to keeping them in the fridge as the chill of the metal added beautifully to the thrill when cuffed around heated skin. 

Now, that threw John’s mind completely off the rails—the combination of cuffs and saber, the first around Sherlock’s wrists, the second in his own hands, running the sharp tip along soft inner thighs, rendering the man beneath him at his mercy, coerced into immobility due to the risk of injury. He would never, _never ever_ , hurt Sherlock though. They both might be thrilled by the pure threat, but he would rather die than to harm his beloved. 

He shivered out of horror at the thought alone and his fantasies came to a screeching halt the moment he laid eyes on the last for him unexpected new item; because _that_ was definitely no option within this little daydream of his. A gun. Nothing like his own SIG Sauer though, but ancient looking even if apparently newish. Wait… was that… Mrs Hudson's Smith & Wesson? Had Sherlock nicked it or had she provided it? John had to admit that it fit rather perfectly with the costume. It was stuffed cheekily underneath one of the straps of Miss Pirate's suspenders, pressed against and digging in the flesh of one of those now hairless thighs, the muzzle neatly resting under the seam of the stockings. The tip of the muzzle peeking out underneath the darker braid of elastic, just barely visible, was such an ambiguous innuendo John had to marvel at the genius idea. His cock, which apparently had taken some interest in all of his observations, twitched in sympathy at the mere mental image of only just the top of the head of a fully erect penis peeking out over the seam of those snugly fitting lace panties currently hidden underneath the skirt. But also the hint of danger that lingered in the faint reminder of the threat that weapon could form, didn’t cease to arouse him. Because he bloody well knew that this weapon wasn’t a mere accessoire. He was well aware that the place and position in which the weapon was fixed to the costume wasn’t accidental; it was the perfect angle to quickly draw the gun if needed. Which implied… holy shit, it was loaded? Freaking hell, Sherlock!

John inhaled sharply and was about to move towards Sherlock and therefore step out of his hiding place, when Miss Pirate finally started to move. How long had he been staring at his Pirate? He realised he really didn’t know. He had forgotten about everything else around him, totally faded out. That was so not on during a case! John groaned. This one would be really hard. And futile innuendos: shut the fuck up!

The moment Miss Pirate started rolling her hips in slow circles, John had a weird out of body experience. He empathised with all the men in front of the stage, drooling over the gorgeous but unreachable Miss Pirate; he could recall the feeling watching her like it had been yesterday—the thrill, the sizzling tension, the heat that had taken hold of his entire body and mind as if having been struck by lightning. At the same time he revelled in the feeling to be the one who knew what lay underneath all that lace and velvet and leather, the one who knew what her face looked like in this exact moment even though he was doomed to watch nothing but her back right now, the one who knew how grouchy that pretty mouth could get, the one who knew the tousled look of those perfectly groomed curls in the morning. And to be the one who knew how Miss Pirate’s skin felt against his own.

John watched mesmerized, as the circles Miss Pirate drew with her hips took hold of her entire body; like waves undulating through the lean form, rolling down her spine from neck to heels balancing on those needle thin rods John actually didn’t trust to be stable enough. To make matters worse, Miss Pirate now lowered her upper body, seductively slowly sliding her long fingered hands down her legs until she was practically folded in half. Ahhh, yes, Miss Pirate was very flexible. John smirked. That had come in handy more than once during the last year. Her hat dropped to the stage and she made a show to lean over even more to grab it, bending one knee, stretching the other lean leg to her side. John could imagine the wink she gave the audience with her long whimpered firefly eyes when she picked the hat up again. What he hadn’t expected was Miss Pirate shaking her head and making her curls bounce and fly before she suddenly snapped her head back up, threw her hair backwards and without doubt fixed her audience with one of those piercing gazes that set all your cells on fire. John’s problem though weren’t the curls, but the snap of her hips that simultaneously to her curls flying backwards made her skirt bounce forward to land on the small of her back. 

John swallowed. Suddenly it got pretty hot here behind the stage. Someone forgot to turn down the heat? He remembered his disappointment when he had been seated in front of the stage, not being able to take a look under that skirt. Now though, he got rewarded more than he had dared to hope for. Standing behind the stage meant also standing behind Miss Pirate, meant also two sinfully plush globes of pale skin barely covered by a black lace panty now in full sight. The straps of the suspenders straining over the oh so familiar flesh, leading the gaze downwards towards the crotch, where a bulge caused by very much not female bits stretched the thin black fabric. John’s breath hitched and he felt his face heat up. This was definitely worth his position _behind_ the stage.

It wasn’t long before Miss Pirate rose again and cheekily donned her hat, and sauntered over the stage, hips swaying. The purple coloured nail of one index finger running over the bare flesh between panty and stockings unavoidably lifted the skirt and revealed the gun to the audience. John could see the flicker of excitement on more than one flushed face among the men gaping at _his_ Pirate. How dare they?? Oh right… They were in a club, wouldn’t do without audience. In the meanwhile Miss Pirate had fetched a chair from somewhere and twirled it with one hand while rounding it. 

John realised now that this was definitely not the dance routine he knew and frowned. Something was missing. His eyes searched the stage, and when it hit him he felt no small amount of disappointment—there was no dancing pole. He felt stupid because he had just assumed there would be. Miss Pirate was inextricably linked to the pole in his mind. But of course this wasn’t the same club. However Miss Pirate didn’t seem to be insecure about her performance. She must be very good at improvising in her dance routine. Or very experienced, John’s brain supplied. 

While John was musing about the might-be, probably-was experience his Pirate had, one of her high-heel-clad feet lifted and the tip of her toes wandered sensuously slowly up her calf, dragging the thirsty gazes of her audience in its wake. When it reached the hollow of her knee her leg snapped to her side like an arrow and made her spin that John got dizzy just by watching. John really had no idea how it was humanly possible, but in the end Miss Pirate sat gracefully on the chair, straddling it backwards, her back turned to the audience. As a consequence she was facing John and immediately locked eyes with him. Miss Pirate's intense gaze kept him hooked, never leaving him when she rolled her shoulders, her upper body shifting from side to side, legs splayed obscenely wide, the skirt even if short sufficiently draped over the intentionally not-hidden demonstration of Miss Pirate’s actual genitalia. Now John saw what Sherlock had meant with ‘the eye sees what the mind wants to see’. If one really cared, there would be enough opportunity to sneak a peek under that skirt to discover who Miss Pirate really was. 

And suddenly John understood; _this_ was the only way Sherlock could express his maleness underneath all the other components and accessories screaming “woman”. As he had said, he liked the sensation of the fabrics on his skin, he liked the process and transformation of applying make-up, he liked the shape and aesthetics of the costume, he liked to dance… but nonetheless it had nothing to do with feeling like a woman. He didn’t want to lose himself while being Miss Pirate. And John wondered if Sherlock had gifted him with that lapdance back then to reveal himself to John, to make sure he wouldn’t miss it. 

His heart rate sped up, only this time not because of the dizzying hotness of that memory, but because he felt honoured, he felt proud of being the one Sherlock had chosen to actively show himself to, to open his eyes. 

John didn’t know what had shown on his face, but Miss Pirate winked at him before she tightly held on to the backrest of the chair and bent backwards, back curving in an impossible angle, corset straining over her torso. John had difficulties to process that stiffly laced corset even allowed movements like this. But leave it to the Sherlock-part in Miss Pirate to make the impossible happen.

“So, she pays you with more than just money, huh?” a smooth voice said next to John. He startled and realised he must have looked like a love sick puppy. He tore his eyes away from the stage to see who had spoken. A man, same height as John—which was surprising to be honest—in a dark suit, sleek, impeccable, perfectly groomed, handsome, disgusting. A hot wild rage took hold of John when the thought popped up that Miss Pirate’s wink might not have been meant for him at all. He scowled at the man, who kept his slimey aloof attitude.

“Those are the best who clear off their debt in naturalia as well, aren’t they?” The man raised one eyebrow meaningfully at John as if they both belonged to some sort of conspiracy. 

“That’s not what she…” he started angrily, ready to defend Miss Pirate's and Sherlock’s honour at all costs.

“Oh, I see. Your personal pet then. She’s a sight, I have to give you that. Well, no doubt such a lewd bitch earns you enough to be worth your... attention.” Another wink and a dirty laugh made John's blood boil.

"Be careful. I'd advise you to choose your words wisely in my presence!" John snarled, clenching his fists at his sides, now turning fully towards the man.

"No need to get protective, mate. Guess she's had enough dicks between her legs to be used to it by now, yeah?" the man raised his hands apologetically. But John wasn't calmed in the slightest. 

"You better keep your slimy hands off her, otherwise you'd regret it. Understood?" John straightened to his full height and even if it made no difference and he still had nothing on his opponent, his fury made easily up for it. 

"Hey, hey, calm down. We're all in the same boat here, right?" the man said in a friendlier voice, but John didn't miss the devious belligerent spark in the man's eyes contradicting his pacifying behaviour. John narrowed his eyes.

"You're new here," the man said, eyeing John assessingly. "Who are you?" he asked with unhidden suspicion and disdain.

And with that it clicked in John's Pirate-muddled brain—this wasn't about John defending Sherlock. This was about Miss Pirate and her… pimp—John still felt sick at the thought alone—penetrating the scene. _'Dear God above, please don't let this be meant literally! And this is not a joke! Dammit!'_ He quickly contemplated, he couldn't very well reveal their true identities but he had absolutely no idea about the behavioural rules of the scene either. So he went with the first thing that came to mind, as close to the truth as possible; remembering what Sherlock used to say, "only lies have detail." 

"I'm her Captain," he said coolly, staring down the other man without batting an eyelid. 

"Right," the other man said after a short moment in which he scrutinised John until he felt stripped naked. He only hoped he had passed the test. "Any other chicks I have to keep my hands off?" the man asked all business but not without an undertone conveying his hostility.

"None of your fucking business!" John hissed. "Believe me, you'll realise quicker than you would like if you misstep." The other man only glared at him. "Who are you anyway?" John made sure to soak the question with all the scorn he could muster.

"Let's say, I'm an old friend. You can call me Spider and I'm only trying to keep my net free from filth." the man said appallingly friendly as if they were having a neighbourly conversation over the fence. "Let me give you a little advice… between friends, so to speak. Don't get too attached to your pets, they all leave eventually. That's what those floosies do. Ya know, caring is not an advantage in our business. All lives end. It'll burn a heart out of you eventually."

John could only barely hold back from spitting his disdain at the man's feet. The man turned and ridiculously wiggled his fingers at John.

"Ciao, Captain." he chirped.

"Catch… you… later!" John snarled after the man.

"No, you won't." the retreating man sing-songed.

"You bet! And when I do I'll break every single bone in your body while naming them!" John called after him, but the man didn't turn and didn't react and then he was gone.

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He feared that he had made things worse even though he didn't know what things that actually were, but there was nothing to it now. He already regretted his temper, he really had to get that under control. He couldn't allow himself more than… smash that slimy spider under his pretty sparkling slippers and for good measure stomp and jump on his remains like Rumpelstiltskin. Yes, that had to do. 

John huffed and turned, looking forward to easing his mind with some more delicious Pirate… and was presented with an empty stage. Damn, shit fucking camel's balls. He had missed Miss Pirate leaving the stage. Where was she? That dickhead had totally distracted him. He wondered if that had been the reason for Mister Creepy-Crawly's turn up behind the stage. Had he been here deliberately? Maybe even especially for Miss Pirate? _'An old friend'_ echoed in John's mind and a slight panic started to rumble through his guts. What was that supposed to mean? What had that slimeball to do with his Pirate? He had to find her! He jumped when he felt a hand grab his shoulder.

"At ease, Captain," a warm and sultry voice purred into his ear. He blew out a breath of relief. "Enjoyed the show?" The smirk on the lips forming the words was clearly conveyed in the slight quiver of the deep voice. 

John turned and beamed up at the mesmerising eyes scanning his face. 

"You damn well know I did!" he grinned and did his utmost best not to rise to his tiptoes to be able to reach the tempting lips and smear that purple lipstick all over his face while kissing Miss Pirate senseless. Wouldn't do for their cover, he guessed. 

"Had a little present there for you in the beginning. Hope you liked it." Miss Pirate's eyes gleamed and John knew immediately what she meant.

"You did that for me that… bouncy-thing?" John blushed, which was absurd considering the extent of their physical… uhm… activities. 

"Very eloquently put, Captain." Miss Pirate rumbled, a smug grin making her plush purple lips twitch. "Yes, the… bouncy-thing… was exclusively for you to enjoy. Have to reward my Captain for his excellent services, no?" 

John only stared, no idea how exactly to react, and apparently Miss Pirate was very pleased with herself. It didn't last long though, before an expression spread on her face he knew all too well from his detective and he knew they were done playing; the game was on.

"We'll go mingle with the crowd in the pub now," Sherlock whispered in his ear. "Try to make clear that I belong to you. You think you can do that?" 

"Oh, believe me, that'll be absolutely not a big stretch for me, babe." John growled, his recent encounter in mind.

"Babe." Sherlock deadpanned, raising one eyebrow while John wiggled his.

"Shall we then, sugarplum?" John grinned broadly and placed his hand firmly on the small of Miss Pirate's back to guide her to the main room of the club. He saw a hint of a blush colour the parts of her skin which were not hidden under the layer of make-up and chuckled.

"Can we maybe not do that, _Sir_?" Miss Pirate said quietly under her breath. 

A shiver ran down John's spine hearing that form of address. Oh shit, he might enjoy this case-persona a tad too much. _'You have to keep control, Watson!'_ he scolded himself, but his mind self cleared its imaginary throat. _'Over yourself, that is! Absolutely only keep control over… yourself!'_ He winced. Of course, over himself. Obviously! Oh God, he was doomed. 

Miss Pirate threw him a sidewards glance though and when he saw the mischief in her dark rimmed eyes, he realised she knew exactly what she was doing. Well, two can play that game…

"If I understand this _game_ we're playing correctly, then you're mine to do with as I please. Isn't that right, _darling_?" John said sweetly while sliding his hand even lower on Miss Pirate's back until he was cupping one of those sinful arse cheeks.

"That's right, Sir." Miss Pirate murmured, submissive, as far as an outside observer would be able to tell. But John knew better. He saw the playfulness in his lover's eyes, heard the challenge in the seemingly humble voice.

"Come on then," he said, winking at his partner. "I have an extraordinarily stunning Pirate to show off and I want the world to know that she's _MINE_!" he growled and squeezed the soft flesh of Sherlock's arse. 

He was almost sure he hadn't imagined the hitch in Miss Pirate's breath. He opened the door that led to the heart of the club and just before they entered the room to be engulfed by the other people Miss Pirate gave him a look that was a heady mix of excitement, adoration, trust, heat and love. 

He smiled back at her, small but reassuring, and they turned in silent agreement and walked over to the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there a way to show endless love to persons who live much too far away? Because I want to shower my betas with hugs and hearts and love and life!!! Darlings, how do you even stand me and my 3am emergency beta requests?? 😅 Love you to bits!!!  
> So if anyone knows, please tell me!! My inbox is open  
> [@loveismyrevolution](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/loveismyrevolution) on tumblr.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which John is surprised by a variety of offers, his own emotions, creatures of the night, an old name and a new turn in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, 
> 
> due to real life being rude and working hours being crazy, this chapter is offered to you with a bit of delay. My apologies!
> 
> Sending you all lots of love,  
> me xxx

They strolled through the club; John never leaving Miss Pirate's side, never letting her out of reach—quite literally. They talked to a variety of different people all of which John didn’t know. It was also difficult for him to estimate to which category each one belonged—mere visitor, an interested party aka a potential… client, but then not their usual kind of client, or a… colleague? What were they even called in this line of work? Work? That sounded so decent. _‘I’m off to work, honey, hiring out my girls again to get them screwed all day and then take their money! Oh, yes, might get home late today, maybe we’ll have to delay dinner a bit. Overtime again… yeah, I know, I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you know… there is this guy I told you about? Who needs to be eliminated? It’s really urgent now, can’t be postponed any longer… I’ll take a day off next week, okay? I promise! Yes, we can invite your parents over for tea if you like…’_

“Sir?” The low timid voice next to his ear pulled him out of his musings. Miss Pirate coyly looked at him from under her thick dark lashes. 

This gaze made John quiver to the core and he had to control himself not to pull that gorgeous face down from where it was towering high above him for a deep thorough kiss. He felt slightly ridiculous—or rather not only slightly—next to Miss Pirate whose heels added at least another 4 inch to the usual 5 Sherlock had on him anyway. He felt like a hobbit. However, nobody but him seemed to care, which might have been caused by his possessive hand visibly placed either on her back, arse, hip or occasionally on her nape, even though he had to reach up for that. Or, Miss Pirate’s bashful attitude displayed in the moments John paid her obvious attention. The way she created the illusion that she'd deliberately make herself smaller while still losing none of her grace—John was fairly impressed—might have added to the image that John was fully in charge. 

They attracted attention, earned quite a few glances and were never short of company. John did get that with Miss Pirate looking like she did and the show she had given on stage. He shouldn’t hold it against anyone, only—he did hold it against them. There were also other dancers, judging by their attire because John wasn’t able to recall any of their faces, mingling with the audience and guests, competing for their attention. However, Miss Pirate and him never ran short of people looking for their company. There were pleasant conversations, one hand occupied by a drink sponsored by New Scotland Yard, the other one pulling Miss Pirate against him by her slim waist. He openly threw her heated looks for everyone to witness, he murmured grumpy remarks about any person who tried to hit on Miss Pirate into her ear for only her to hear, he scowled and snarled at everyone who dared to touch Miss Pirate. All in all he put on a pretty good show. So he thought. 

The thing was, the longer the night lasted the more the line got blurred between what was still act and what wasn’t. His confusion was only spurred by Miss Pirate's apparent attempt to win the contest of Miss Mixed-Signals. The one moment she leaned into his touch, almost clinging to his side—the next moment she glared at him when he gave her an affectionate peck or ran his hand up and down her back. She alternated between being sweet and snappy and shy and frosty in a way that his brain ended up in knots in the attempt to keep up. 

All he wanted was to pull his Pirate into a quiet corner and hug her tightly and snog her for a good while. Nothing more than that actually and he wondered how that was even possible considering the simmering arousal creating a pretty tight fit of the posh suit around his crotch. 

Speaking of, at some dreadful point he actually had to let go of his arm candy because his bladder screamed for attention. He told Miss Pirate in a, as he thought, clear and unambiguous way to stay put and not let anyone come near her. He didn't trust any of these folks after his spider-y encounter.

When John came back from the much needed toilet break, he stopped short when he re-entered the main room. _‘That is so not on! She has to bloody well listen when I tell her she must not move. Who does she think she is? I’m her Captain, dammit!’_

He stomped over to the dance floor where Miss Pirate unabashedly danced intimately with an appallingly tall, young, dark, handsome bloke who was devouring her with his eyes. It was a wonder that his look didn’t strip her naked right there. 

Without being aware how he got there John entered the dance floor and immediately gained appreciating and inviting gazes, very not-subtle touches of his behind and women worthy of staring in the next pornhub blockbuster dancing in his way. He showed them all aside like a mole digging his way through the soil, sole focus on the dazzling creature bewitching her dance partner and actually everyone in her atmosphere; all of them slowly gravitating towards her like planets circling the sun. 

Without a second thought he grabbed her wrist—when he got the chance that is; when it wasn’t held too high above her head for him to reach it; wouldn't do if he had to ineptly jump like a toddler aiming for the door handle to reach it. He grabbed it hard—too hard, he knew—and yanked her away from Mr Handsome.

“You…” John growled, almost stabbing his pointed finger into the guy’s nostril, and scowled at him. Words failed him in his whatever-dark-mood-muddled mind and he simply turned and pulled Miss Pirate along.

“Sir…” she protested, more than mildly annoyed, stumbling behind him over the dance floor.

“No,” John hissed, stopped in the midst of the dancing crowd, turned. “ _This_ is not what we’re here for!”

“Not?” Miss Pirate pouted and disturbingly resembled a certain sulking detective.

“It’s not how we’re doing this! You’re thoroughly mistaken if you think I’ll just watch and accept you going off on your own!” he glared at her, cursing that he had to look up to meet her eyes.

John wasn’t aware that the interest to approach him had suddenly turned into an interest to keep a safe distance. He also wasn’t aware of the with difficulties held back smirk making cunning purple painted lips twitch behind his back. All thoughts boiled down to _‘MINE’_ , he made his way to the door they had come through earlier that night intending to get out of the cursed club. 

The moment the door closed behind them and the buzz of the music and the hum of the late night crowd was dimmed, the fog in his mind lifted slightly and he realised the force with which he still held on to Miss Pirate’s wrist. He also realised the radio silence from his partner and winced. _‘Well done, Watson, well done. Next profession: bulldozer! You really have a knack for that.’_

“Uhhh… sorry?” He sighed, the tension draining from his body. 

He turned to cautiously scan the emotional state of his partner. Miss Pirate’s face was blank, indifferent, as far as John could tell through all the make-up, the Pirate-persona-mask or maybe not mask, and his once again immediately awe-struck mind-mush.

“No,” Miss Pirate said, calmly, unfazed.

“What no?” John asked, a bit taken aback. “You mean, you don’t accept my…”

“No as in doesn’t matter.” Miss Pirate interrupted him.

“Well, _I_ think it does…” John started to defend himself only to be interrupted again.

“It’s my turn on stage again, would have had to leave anytime soon anyway,” Miss Pirate said, all business. 

John frowned. He hadn’t known. Another performance? Had that been on the menu all along? Not that he minded to watch her again… not really, no. But he’d much rather go home now and have his pirate to himself. He already wanted to inquire, but Miss Pirate didn’t seem to notice. 

The door to the “strictly girls’ area” opened and a, by now, well known and disliked mob of bright red hair emerged.

“Oh, Elle, there you are. Was just about to go look for you. Come on, chop-chop.” She tried to shoo Miss Pirate behind the stage. “You’re the star tonight. Don’t make people wait, darling! Never good for business...” she cooed, winked, smirked. John hated it.

Miss Pirate shortly nodded to her, raised a hand to indicate that she'd be there in a moment and turned to look at John again.

“You go back in, observe people, talk to people… or rather let them talk to you. I’ll see you later.” And without another word she turned and left him behind, confused, exhausted, annoyed. 

Okay then, back to work, even though he had no fucking idea what he was looking for. And why. The realisation dawned pretty soon though. He hadn’t been aware that he had to gain respect as Miss Pirate’s pimp first. Apparently he had hit the spot. Although he didn’t really know what had made the difference? His possessive attitude? Did he say something? Was it snatching Miss Pirate out from the other man’s arms? Whatever the reason might have been, people were approaching him differently now, more seriously; assessing him, calculating. 

Just as Miss Pirate had predicted, he didn’t have to make any effort—people were practically competing for his attention. It was a rather heady feeling, although the things they wanted his attention for were a pretty cold shower. More like an ice bucket actually. 

Miss Pirate for one night—how much? Was she also available for regular escort? Would he take other girls, too? Only dancers? Did he do individual girls only? Or did he have an establishment? Or more than one? What were his conditions? Did he engage in other business? Drugs? Guns? Fraud? Was he interested? Where did he get _that_ kind of girl from? Was she British or had he bought her somewhere abroad? She did look slightly Asian? No, too tall, Eastern Europe maybe?

John got sick to the bone; and while he had to deal with that madness, his Miss Pirate was on stage, showing off all of her striking features and He. Didn't. Have. A. Chance. To. Watch!! Which only heightened his irritation and made his responses sharp, his humor sarcastic, his comments snappy. God, he was so done! He played along because, honestly, there was no other option. He could hardly blow their cover just because he was annoyed. Well, a teeny-tiny bit more than annoyed, for fucks sake, but there was no opportunity to talk to Sherlock to estimate what progress they had made. His nerves were running thin.

When a hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed slightly, he turned furiously to bark at whoever dared to touch him. When he met the pleading eyes of an obviously exhausted Miss Pirate he could have wept of the relief that flooded his entire being. 

"Captain?" Miss Pirate addressed him cautiously.

"Come on, let's get out of here. I'm done with this shit." he growled, marched in direction of the exit, throwing glares at everyone who made the tiniest attempt to approach them, holding Miss Pirate in a tight grasp around her biceps.

Pushing open the door to the back alley felt freeing like breaking through the surface of the ocean when the lungs had already given up on the hope to get in contact with oxygen ever again. John almost stumbled when he was hit by the chill of the nightly air. He stopped in his tracks and inhaled deeply. So deep that his deep purple shirt was straining and the buttons threatened to pop off. 

Okay, this was how Sherlock felt fifty percent of the time then? Like a fucking rolled roast? John did like them though, they were definitely tasty. However, he'd prefer his lover more like… sushi? Or even better… oyster? No, he did _not_ have a particular kink for fish, neither the smell nor the looks. Although, he would have liked to meet the make-up carp… No, but honestly… oyster? Freed from their rough shell, fresh, pure, extravagant, luxury and… naked. Hmmm, that didn't sound too bad…

"Alright?" a warm low voice pulled him from his hungry-just-not-particularly-for-food thoughts. He looked over his shoulder and realised that he was still holding on to Miss Pirate's arm and swiftly released it.

"Oh God, sorry!" the precious air came forcefully rushing out of his lungs again. "Yeah, yeah… I… think so. You?" 

Concerned and insecure he scanned Miss Pirate's face. It had been one hell of a weird evening. The eyes meeting his own were like deep dark pools—calm, earnest, fathomless. After a moment of taking each other in, grounding each other again, Miss Pirate nodded almost invisibly small.

"Home?" John asked, hopefully. Another small nod.

"I have to collect my bag first though. I can't leave my belongings in this place considering we won't come back here." 

John hadn't expected the tsunami-like wave of relief that crushed over him. Thank all the bloody Gods out there that the hell of pretending he'd wanna share his Pirate was over. A small smile cracked his mask of exasperation. 

"Good." He nodded. "Alright. Just… be quick, yeah? And be careful! Come right back, yeah?" And he felt the ugly creature called jealousy raise its head again. "Oh, sod it, I'll come with. Lead the way, Miss Pirate." 

He nudged her goodnaturedly and one last time they entered the club. One last time donning the attitude of her pimp; and this time it felt good—because he _knew_ it was a show, he _knew_ they were almost done, he _knew_ that she knew. Did she though? 

When someone wanted to stop him again and he refused to wait outside of the girls' area, she threw him wary glances.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, don't you think, _sweetheart_?" he said to one of the faceless dancers he didn't care one speck about and pushed without waiting for a response past her. 

To be honest, there was _a lot_ he hadn't seen before but all he cared about in this moment was to get his Pirate home, as soon and as safe as possible. 

He watched her pick her belongings, which were strewn across a desk in front of a giant mirror; everything got stuffed carelessly into her bag. John realised all the other girls were in different stages of changing and removing make-up, but Miss Pirate didn't seem to bother. She grabbed Sherlock's coat from a chair it was draped over and hurried to the exit again. 

"Ladies," John tipped his non-existent hat and nodded in their general direction as a farewell and rushed after her. 

The cab ride home was as quiet as the one earlier that evening. Only, Miss Pirate had her eyes closed, head dropped back on the backrest and John let her be. At one point John spotted a movement out of the corner of his eyes and turned. He smiled, spotting the hand resting palm up on the seat between them. He tenderly took it and laced their fingers and as if in a snap the tension in the car eased; Miss Pirate turned her head, opened her eyes and smiled warmly at him. 

The streets they passed we're almost empty of people so the ride didn't take too long and they were both relieved to finally be home. Feet heavy as lead they made their way up. In the living room Miss Pirate stopped and turned and faced John, who slowly walked over. He reached up and cupped one side of her face in his warm palm. She leaned into the touch and closed her beautiful eyes, revealing the slightly ruined purple eyeshadow, smeared by sweat and sinful blinking. 

"I'm tired, John," she whispered.

"I know, love. Let's get you into bed." He caressed her face, ran his thumb gently over the closed eyelid, felt the long painted whimpers brush against his skin. 

"Not that kind of tired," she said, opened her eyes and immediately searched his gaze.

John watched her and saw the same raw and tangled emotions he felt himself reflected in her eyes. There were cases, then there were difficult cases and then there was this one. Somehow this case stripped them both bare to the core. They had never experienced anything like it before. This case was far too personal, throwing them back to the fragile beginnings of their now wonderful relationship, overshadowing it with a flavour of insecurity and wariness. It opened a window into the past of his Pirate he hadn’t been part of and he didn’t know enough about. Yet. John was anxious about what he’d learn, afraid it would make him see his partner in a different light; although at the same time he loathed the thought alone that it would make any difference. He had wondered about it before, of course he had, but as it had never had any influence on their life together up to this point, he had dismissed it and put it to the back of mind. 

Now, pulled into consciousness with full force it threatened to overwhelm him, make him helpless. The idea of sharing his Miss Pirate—even back in the days when it hadn’t been his fucking business—made him sick. And quite frankly, he was frightened by the emotions it elicited. He didn’t know how to handle them, for himself but also for his partner. The mere possibility that he might turn those dark and destructive emotions against Sherlock, the thought that he deemed himself even capable of it, was terrifying. He had sensed and seen a matching amount of confusion in Miss Pirate; what it was caused by he couldn’t be sure. He prayed to God that it wasn’t intimidation she felt caused by the threat he formed. Was it realisation that she missed that former life she’d had? Or how John didn’t fit in there considering how clueless he was? Had he messed up? Or was it something else altogether. God, his mind whirled; his stomach wasn’t any better. And his beloved Pirate still looked at him with those mesmerising eyes clouded by exhaustion and something unsettling he didn’t understand. This wasn’t how he had expected this evening to go. It had all started with excited anticipation, with so much joy and gloriously sexy Miss Pirate. It was supposed to be one hell of hot delightful pleasure. With a bit of a case. And now? He couldn’t leave it like this, could he? He had to do something about it. He had to fix it! Unfortunately, there was no agenda on how to handle it. 

No agenda meant no rules, so John took her hand and just followed his instinct on how to comfort both of them. He walked them over to the bathroom, opened the tap and let the water run warm. He never let go of his lover's hand and she just stood quietly behind him. When he put in the stop to fill the bathtub, she frowned.

"John? It's arse o'clock. You want to take a bath? Now?" she inquired. 

"Not I," he said. "We." 

Her eyes widened a bit, then softened. Then she smiled almost shyly, leaned forwards and pressed her soft lips on John's. When she pulled back her smile widened into a grin and she raised her hand to wipe her thumb over his lips. 

"Purple suits you. Maybe you should try it at some point." She smirked and John snickered, because no… that wasn't something for him and neither did he think that Sherlock would want it. It was just so screwy to joke about him crossdressing while Miss Pirate looked at him in all her stunning beauty. It was crazy. It was perfect! It was so them.

"I love you!" John whispered and stole another kiss, painting his own lips purple, catching her wrist when Miss Pirate once again wanted to remove the lipstick.

The tub was filling, in slo-mo speed as usual, and John made use of that time to seat his Pirate on their bed, interrogate her where to find the required supplies and prop himself in a chair in front of her. 

"Tell me, if I'm doing this wrong, yeah? Never done it before…" he said hushed into the intimate space between them. 

"Not much you can mess up there." Miss Pirate murmured. "You don't have to though. I'm perfectly capable…"

"Hush," he pressed his forefinger against her lips. "Let me. I want to." 

After he had replaced his finger with his lips and had shared a tender kiss with her, he reached for her chin to hold it in his hand to steady her face. He took one of the cotton pads he had slathered with make-up remover and softly brushed it over one of the sharp cheekbones.

Miss Pirate closed her eyes and sighed and something that looked suspiciously like bliss spread over her features. 

John watched the beloved face in front of him for a moment and couldn't believe his luck that this otherworldly Miss Pirate had chosen him out of all people, that this extraordinary man called him his friend, his partner, his lover, his… just… his. 

Then he got to work—swipe after soft swipe over closed eyelids, forehead, the bridge of the noise, chin and jaw and perfectly shaped lips the pads absorbed layer after layer of the make-up that covered the face of his detective. He tried to be as thorough as possible and when he was pleased with the result he pressed another tiny soft peck on the relaxed and now familiarly pink-ish lips to indicate that he was done. Eyelids, slightly shiny from the lotion John had used, fluttered open and an affectionate gaze met his eyes. 

"Come on, you." John murmured and pulled his partner up holding both hands. 

After a quick jog to the bathroom to turn off the tap, John took his time to slowly remove every single garment he had helped to put on what felt like a lifetime ago. He cherished every knot he opened, the laces he unwound. He slipped the heels off the big slender feet, followed by the stockings, and when he stood he was suddenly at eye level with his favourite-to-kiss mouth again. He grinned; _this_ was a rather nice side-effect of un-pirating his detective. 

Looking up confirmed that his Pirate liked this special development just as much and two grinning mouths met each other in what couldn't really be called a proper kiss but more an exchange and merging of mutual happiness. 

When Miss Pirate was striped down to a gloriously naked Sherlock, John led him into the bathroom. He quickly undressed himself, climbed into the bathtub first and settled. His bent knees spread in invitation for Sherlock to join him. The moment Sherlock rested his back against John's front they both sighed in unison which made them both chuckle. Sherlock rested his head back on John's shoulder and John tried to thread his fingers through the beloved mob of curls but got stuck immediately. 

"Ouch! John!" Sherlock complained and winced. "Be careful! You know, there _is_ a reason for these curls to look as impeccable as they do!"

"Absolutely not full of ourselves, are we?" John laughed. 

"Well, _I_ at least have a reason for it…" 

John saw the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch and pressed his nose into the curls straining from all the products used to keep them in shape. 

"I have to say, after I got used to it, I found myself rather dashing as well today." Join said and was amazed that it was indeed the truth.

"As did I, John. I think it's safe to say that it was quite a bit more than just "dashing" what you looked like in that suit." John wasn't sure if he had imagined the shiver that ran through the body he held in his arms, but before he could dwell on it, Sherlock spoke again, "And I'm more than sure that I wasn't alone in thinking so considering the looks that followed you throughout our stay. It wasn't easy to stay on that stage and watch you seducing the entire audience."

John grinned when he felt Sherlock snuggling even closer against him. 

"Wasn't easy to pay attention to any of those idiots and _not_ watch you seducing the entire audience." He tightened his embrace and sniffed the mob of hair tickling his nose—and huffed. "Let's get all this… stuff out of your hair, love."

"That 'stuff', John, is purchased at one of the most renowned salons in London and costs so much I don't even dare to tell you out of fear you'd divorce me." Sherlock mumbled.

John's stomach did a little flip at those words considering they weren't actually married. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah… whatever," he chuckled. "As far as I'm concerned it could belong to the Queen herself…"

"It _does_ belong to a queen though." Sherlock said silently.

"Right you are, love. The only queen I love and care for." He pressed a kiss on top of Sherlock's head. And was rewarded with a sticky layer of… something… on his lips. 

"Anyway, it doesn't smell and it doesn't taste like you though. So, off it goes…"

"Taste?" Sherlock crinkled the bridge of his nose and looked over his shoulder at John. 

But John only reached up to pick just another posh something which Sherlock used to wash his hair with. He showed a bit at Sherlock and carefully guided him down to wet his hair. His partner's eyes closed, fully trusting him to hold him. John scooped the water up in his hands and let it carefully run over Sherlock's hair. When it was all soaked through, he pulled Sherlock back up to cuddle against him so he could spread the shampoo in the wet strands. 

A deep rumbling hum emerged from Sherlock's throat when John massaged his scalp, the foam slowly sliding down Sherlock's temples and neck. John's cock stirred as a predictable reaction to that most sinful and erotic sound and John spotted, hidden under the water surface, that Sherlock was in a similar state. But they both ignored it—or rather not ignored, as they were both well aware of it, but they didn't pay it any attention. Somehow, it wasn't important this moment. This moment was about something else altogether. It was about warm skin on warm skin; it was about curls becoming soft again; it was about fingers sliding through them; it was about gentle kisses and content hums.

Eventually they got out of the tub, chilly and all pruned. They toweled quickly and climbed into bed. Not long before they dozed off, cuddled against each other, murmured terms of love and endearment bouncing back and forth between them. John hugged Sherlock tight, held him in his arms, being the big spoon. _'Ha, funny that!'_ , he thought as he drifted into sleep. Well, at least as a spoon he could pretend. 

The demands of his bladder woke him. The sun was up high and Sherlock was still out of it. After a visit to the loo and a quick brush of his teeth, John snuggled back under the covers. His cold feet made Sherlock stir and he grumbled and turned to nuzzle his face against John's neck. 

John wrapped his arm around him to hold him close and looked down to revel in the rare opportunity to watch a sleeping Sherlock—and started chuckling to himself. Grouchy, Sherlock popped his eyes open and glared at John. 

"Can you kindly refrain from making your chest wobble? There are people here who want to sleep." he whined, voice still rough, not fully awake yet.

But John couldn't help it; the corners of his mouth lifted in amusement and the chuckle turned into an affectionate laughter which he tried to muffle in Sherlock's chaotic curls. 

"Really, John, this is immensely inconsiderate." Sherlock huffed and was scooping even closer to John, digging and burrowing his head on John's chest and in his neck as if he were one of the pillows.

"If I'm that uncomfortable, you _could_ go sleep on your own side of the bed, you know?" he laughed while running his hand up and down Sherlock's back. 

"Nope. That's out of the question. Absolutely no option whatsoever," the man in his arms murmured, trying to look very serious and determined, which made John only laugh harder. 

Sherlock raised his head and propped himself on his forearm.

"What?" he asked sharply, frowning. "What is so extremely amusing?"

"Nothing, love. It's just…" he tried to regain some composure, but it didn't help. Especially not, when Sherlock attempted to glare at him in annoyance. "It's just… have you seen yourself in the mirror?" he chuckled some more and pressed a quick kiss on the pursed lips of his partner.

"Of course not, John, considering I've not been out of bed yet. You're behaving even more absurd than usual this morning." Sherlock started to roll away from John, but John only pulled him closer, hugging him tight.

"Well, it seems I'm not very talented in removing eye make-up." he snickered. "I might have missed a bit yesterday." 

"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed, amused himself now he realised what was going on. "Most people wouldn't consider it funny but rather… sexy…" He lowered his voice to the growling baritone he knew drove John crazy. "They call it smokey eyes…" he purred with a deliberately smokey voice and ran his nose along John's ear shell.

"I'm not most people though," John said, a bit breathless.

"No?" Sherlock smirked, well aware of the effect he had.

"No," John countered, and started chuckling again at the thought. 

Sherlock stopped his ministrations to look down at him. 

"I think it's a wonderful inspiration for the next drag dress…" He pressed his lips together to hide his grin without success. 

Suddenly intrigued, his look also a bit bewildered, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

"Is being an owl a thing for you girls?" John giggled, he couldn't help it. 

Apparently Sherlock was a bit lost, didn't know what to make of it all. He frowned now deeply, looking at John quizzically.

"It isn't a carnival, John. I thought you'd respect…" Sherlock said, a bit restrained, but was shut up by a firm kiss.

"I thought more of a… night owl," John said, seductively, voice low now himself in revenge for Sherlock's earlier obvious manipulation. " _That_ you are anyway…"

Sherlock squinted his eyes, smiling devilish.

"In that case I'd rather go with ‘vampire’," he growled.

Without further warning he dove for John's neck, biting there playfully before running his tongue over John's pulse point only to latch on to that sensitive spot and suck vigorously.

John yelped in surprise, but then groaned and stretched his neck to give Sherlock better access. His laughter had died quickly and the amusement made room for another very pleasant feeling. As if vampire Sherlock had truly sunk his teeth into John's skin a fire spread through John's body emanating from that spot—like a spark igniting a stream of fuel running through his veins.

"God, Sherlock…" he moaned. "You'd be the only vampire I'd willingly let suck me dry." 

"Oh, is that so?" Sherlock released John's neck, grinning impishly. "Well, in that case… better not waste time." he said and slid down John's body and under the covers in one smooth motion. On his way, he ran the tip of his tongue over John's skin in one straight line without lingering anywhere, waking it in rapid speed, leaving John no chance to react other than moan loudly and give himself over to the sensation. The unprocessed tickle it left in its wake, seeped through his skin, pulsing in dizzying waves of diffuse warmth through his neurons.

John hadn't time to mentally prepare for Sherlock taking John's not yet fully erect penis in his mouth and sucking him to full hardness in no time. Sherlock didn't wait to move his lips, tightly wrapped around John's cock, up and down in an unrelenting rhythm. Hollowing his checks to increase the suction, pressing his tongue firmly against the underside, rubbing it over the precome oozing slit with every upwards move.

"Shit, Sherlock… Fuck…" John panted. "Stop. Wait… Sherlock…" He reached down for Sherlock, helplessly fumbling to get hold of the over-enthusiastic vampire. "Come here. Come here!" he puffed out, voice hoarse, breath ragged, and pulled the man up when he finally got a grip of the back of a neck, of a bony shoulder. 

A completely disheveled Sherlock emerged from under the covers and John immediately pulled him in for a frantic kiss. Sherlock's mouth tasted of his own precome in place of the expected morning cottonness. John groaned.

"God… You!" he growled, nibbling on Sherlock's bottom lip, flicking his tongue playfully against the tip of Sherlock's who was trying to get past his lips to invade his mouth. "Turn…" he rasped, patting Sherlock's hip. When the man didn't react immediately he repeated more urgently, reaching for Sherlock's thigh to pull, "Turn! Come here! I want to taste you, too…"

Sherlock moaned when he caught up on John's plan and hastily scrambled to position himself upside down on the bed, knees planted on either side of John's head, bent forward to prop his hands next to John's hips. Which left John with the glorious sight of Sherlock's plush arse raised into the air, the widely spread thighs involuntarily parting his cheeks; all of the pale hairless skin on a beautiful display. Sherlock's deeply flushed and leaking cock hovering above John's face, his sack full and heavy dangling perfectly in reach, John's mouth watered. He lifted his head and licked a broad wet stripe over Sherlock's scrotum, the tender tissue soft and velvety on his tongue. Sherlock's thighs trembled when John sucked one of his balls into his mouth and rolled it gently on his tongue. The long breathless moan coming from the lower parts of the bed directly went to John's cock, screaming for attention; throbbing, beads of precome dripping on his belly. 

Sherlock seemed to pick up on its desperate begging as he took John's full length in his mouth and enthusiastically started bobbing his head. Sherlock's balls slipped from John's mouth when he gasped and gripped Sherlock's thighs hard with both hands to steady himself, to have an anchor not to drown in the onslaught of sensations. The muscles underneath his hands were twitching, tensing; Sherlock's hips bucking forward seeking much needed friction. John released one of Sherlock's thighs and reached for his erection instead, and swallowed it completely down in one go. Sherlock thrust forward in surprise and John gagged and coughed, so he took hold of the base of Sherlock's cock covering it partly with his hand as far as he needed to keep the man from suffocating him. This gave him space to tease and stimulate the glans, twirling his tongue around it, poking its pointed tip against the slit. 

Sherlock's moans became one non-stop string of needy noises around John's cock and he thrust frantically into John's mouth. John let it happen and stroked Sherlock's shaft, rock hard in his hand, in time with his movements. It all became one mind-blowing circle of give and take. Quite literally 'mind-blowing' John's foggy brain confirmed; this must be what they call to fuck one's brains out. John was lost in the rising desire Sherlock's talented mouth on his cock created, swelling in his lower belly, merging with the pleasure of feeling Sherlock under his hands, in his mouth, tasting him, hearing him… 

He felt his orgasm building, buzzing under his skin, in his mind, fogging all his senses; in the end he no longer knew where Sherlock's body ended and his own began. When finally all sensations overwhelmed him and his orgasm took over it was like a maelstrom sucking him deeper and deeper under the surface. It seemed to last forever, tension steadily brimming, flowing over like a high tide breaking a dam. 

When he came back to himself he tasted Sherlock's semen on his tongue, felt some of it stick at the corner of his mouth. The man himself was plopped down on the mattress next to him, the way he had been, still upside down; both of them out of breath, chests heaving of heavy breathing. 

"I'm not completely sure this is how the thing with the vampires works…" Sherlock puffed under his breath.

John huffed and laughed breathlessly. 

"We'll ask next time we meet one." he chuckled, grinning broadly out of sheer happiness.

"Don't know if that's advisable for our health though," Sherlock said thoughtfully, slowly regaining some composure. "They might want to give a demonstration."

"Nope. Won't let anyone else suck you!" John laugh-growled, looking down at Sherlock who grinned back at him.

John rolled onto his side and pulled one of those ridiculously long legs closer, hugged it tight against his chest. He peppered the smooth shaved… no, wait… waxed skin of shin and calf with kisses until the heaviness of the bone-deep satisfaction of a powerful orgasm took over and made him drop his head back onto the sheets. Sherlock freed himself of John's no longer very strong hold and crawled up to lay down again facing John. Their gazes met, they locked eyes and grinned foolishly at each other. 

"Morning," John said through his smile-stretched lips.

"More like lunch time actually," Sherlock said, squinting his eyes. "Don't you see the angle of the light coming in?"

"Okay, whatever, Mr Genius… we have nowhere to be anyway..." John murmured, already muffled into Sherlock's mouth with his lips chasing just another kiss, which Sherlock willingly offered. They cherished the slow sensuous slide of lips against lips, tongues unhurriedly caressing each other; exchanging all the comfort they had craved the evening before. 

“Nowhere to be _yet,_ ” Sherlock said when they finally let go of each other.

“What do you mean, ‘yet’?” John frowned. “Didn’t you solve the case?”

“No. Unfortunately not.” Sherlock rolled onto his back and crossed his arms under his head, staring at the ceiling.

“But… you slept…” John's brow wrinkled even further in confusion. “You never sleep during a case…”

“That was… different,” Sherlock said silently. 

John watched him, waiting to see if he’d say more but Sherlock changed the topic.

“There’s nothing to it, we have to go back.” He said and it didn’t sound as excited as he had been about the case in the beginning.

“Back? I thought you’ve said we won’t come back to the club?” John asked, puzzled. Had he misunderstood? No, he hadn’t; he viciously remembered the feeling of relief that was now erased by disappointment. 

“Not to the same club. Apparently, it wasn’t the right one to be for this occasion. We’ll have to try others.” Sherlock explained.

“Others? As in plural?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, John. Others—there are several more that are worth considering, although I’m not yet able to estimate which one of those is the most promising if it wasn’t the last one.” Sherlock mused.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to engage in club hopping in these times. Yesterday already was pretty crazy. It’s really worrying that all those people seem to care a fuck about safety measures and actually I feel pretty shit to be one of them. I know it was for a case. And I know we put ourselves at risk there ourselves. I thought that it had been it though, yesterday, one night. But now? Generously spreading what we might have caught throughout all of London’s nightlife? Let alone even more risk for us? For everyone around us?” John got more and more agitated the longer he thought about it.

“John, I know! I might be irresponsible sometimes, but I’m not ignorant.” he said cautiously. “I have to say though, that most of the people at the clubs are. Ignorant, I mean. We’d hardly be the only ones indulging in ‘club hopping’ as you call it. And everyone there—at least the audience—is there of their own free will. Regarding your concerns for our contacts… I took measures—contact to Lestrade and the Yard only by phone or mail, no in person contact; Mrs Hudson is informed not to come upstairs and to avoid us in the hallway; even though we’re not leaving the flat except for the visits to the clubs. One of Mycroft’s minions will do the shopping for us and bring it here, leave it downstairs. And the best of all—we won't see Mycroft either for the time being.” He fleetingly grinned but was soon quiet as if mentally going over the list again, then nodded to himself.

“When did you arrange all that?” John asked, baffled.

“Last night, when I realised that I failed to gain the required information and reasoned that exactly this situation would arise. When I left the stage after my last performance.”

“Oh.” John was stunned. Sherlock watched him quietly.

“As for our own risk…” Sherlock continued, hesitantly, “I just... have to, John.” he whispered, looking pleadingly into John’s eyes. “It’s important to me. It’s… personal.” He swallowed and looked away. “However, I would fully understand if you’d refrain from taking part in this case. I would be able to somehow manage to…”

“No! Stop! Don’t even think about it!” John interrupted him forcefully. “No way I’d let you do this alone! Nope. Not an option!” He shook his head and looked sternly at Sherlock, whose face softened.

“Thank you, John.” he whispered. 

“Right… so…” John cleared his throat. “Back into the lion's den tonight then. Where? How? Do you have a plan? Care to share?” 

“I have to make some calls first, arrange some things. I have to get a spot in the schedule for the performances. Not everyone will be equally pleased to see me back." Sherlock said.

"Hmmm, so… you know all those people?" John interrogated cautiously.

"Not everyone of course, there're always new players in the game, but most of them I've met before. The community of the scene is much smaller than one would think. People know each other. And I'm certainly not one of the players that is easily forgotten." Sherlock said more to himself than to John.

"Yeah, seems like it." That came out sharper than intended and Sherlock promptly turned his head to watch him, eyes squinted suspiciously. "What I mean is…" John hurried to reassure his partner, "I noticed people recognising you. People you probably know from before the time you met me because I've never seen them before… like…" he rolled his hand in the air, indicating he lacked some crucial information there but Sherlock only cluelessly raised his eyebrows. "Well, the… redhead…?"

"Redhead?" Sherlock seemed at a loss. He rolled over to lie on his side now, propped up and leaning on one elbow. 

"Smallish woman, red hair, calling you 'darling'... you know, redhead!" John said flatly.

"Oh, Josy…" A spark of realisation gleamed in Sherlock's eyes. "Yes, she's one of the few who never questioned me. Rare species." 

John felt a pang of jealousy and resentment, but called himself to attention. It was good that there were people who accepted Sherlock the way he was, wasn't it? No need to be jealous only because he himself apparently wasn't as special as he'd like to be… dammit. John took a deep steadying breath. 

"You were close then?" he asked. Maybe he was nosy, but he was curious to learn more about Sherlock's past.

"Quite. Well, as close as people are in that business." Sherlock mumbled.

There was one thing nagging at John and he wasn't sure if he was crossing a line here, but… he had to try. He turned on his side as well, resting his head on his pillow, Sherlock hovering above him. He reached out and ran his fingertips over Sherlock's hairless chest.

"She… called you… what was it? Elle?" John asked hesitantly, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. That's why he didn't see the small smile lifting the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

"Wondered when you'd ask..." Sherlock said, hushed, affectionate.

"Huh?" John's gaze flipped up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"I saw your confusion last night. It wasn't the time to explain then. I assumed you'd ask if you want to know." Sherlock scanned John's face, his eyes roaming John's features. John waited for Sherlock to go on, the silence stretched. When John was about to interrogate further, Sherlock started speaking again. 

"It was… is… my drag name. That's what I was going by and people in the scene used to call me." he said tentatively.

"Okay… right…" John let it sink in for a moment. Nodded. Frowned. "Elle…" he tested the feel of it in his mouth, watched Sherlock while saying it again, "Elle." After a while he drew his eyebrows together. "Why Elle though? To emphasise the female appearance? Elle… that means 'she' in French, isn't it?" John mused, watching Sherlock curiously.

"That's true. It does. Not bad, John." Sherlock smiled down at him. "But no."

"Then… why?" John asked, intrigued now. "It's not just Elle, is it? Elle…" he rolled the name on his tongue, trying to figure out the rest of it but came up blank. "Elle who?" 

Sherlock smirked, eyes twinkling. 

"Elle Lamentory, my dear Watson." he said, leaning slightly forward, deliberately lowering his voice. 

"Seriously?" John laughed, a belly shaking deep rooted affectionate laughter, and Sherlock looked at him with so much love and such childlike joy that John couldn't help but pull the man down for a kiss and not let go until they were both out of breath. 

Still beaming at each other when they parted, John tried to pick up the conversation they'd had. 

"So… drag name, right…" he still silently chuckled. Such a nutter, his boyfriend! Such an amazingly lovely lunatic. 

Sherlock hummed, still observing John's reaction.

"But then—Josy it was?—is that a drag name or whatever, too? She's a woman right? I mean a woman woman… Ah, damn, sorry Sherlock, I'm crap with this…" 

"John," Sherlock pressed a kiss on his worriedly wrinkled forehead, "it's all fine!" he said in a low voice; John sighed.

"But women don't do drag, right? I mean people born with female genitals… jeez why is this so difficult…"

"No, they don't. Josy is a cis woman, no drag queen. It's still her artist's name, that's what people go by; next to no-one knows or uses real names. She calls herself Josy Bakers, after Josephine Baker—amazing woman! That's one of the reasons why I took a liking to her—she's not as much of an idiot as others."

"Ah, okay. Yeah, I get that." John nodded, suddenly strangely soothed about the redheaded woman. "So that's not drag then what you're doing there? Or is it?" John was confused.

"How much do you know about drag culture, John?" Sherlock asked seriously.

"Uhm… not much, to be honest." John confessed sheepishly.

"Okay," Sherlock nodded, contemplating, then inhaled deeply and fixed John with his gaze. "No, it's not drag in particular what I'm doing there, even though that's where my roots are." He stopped John when he wanted to interrupt. "That's where I started, back in the days when I wasn't in the best of places. When I didn't have a John yet…" he added softly, pressing a quick kiss on John's lips. "I was bored, I was trying to remain occupied while staying out of prison, hospital or rehab. I had a strong bond with my uncle Rudy back then, who was a cross-dresser. I loved him dearly; he was the only one who didn't ask questions or had any expectations of me. With him I could just be… myself," Sherlock shrugged one shoulder and John took his hand, running his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "That's how I came in contact with those costumes, fabrics, make-up and so on. When he passed…" Sherlock swallowed, "the drag scene was the first thing I thought of to seek comfort. However, quickly I realised that it wasn't what I wanted. You have to know, John, drag is not only about the dresses and the appearance… it's a lot of drama, competition, humour—the witty kind, although sometimes pretty rude—and most of all about showing off."

When John only smirked and raised one eyebrow, Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I know, sounds very much like me, right?" he laughed. "I _did_ have a talent for it, I have to admit. But after a while I realised, my rude deductions weren't welcome when they were true, my sarcasm wasn't funny when someone felt called out. Also, I didn't want to compete with it; I like to insult people, but only when they deserve it. I don't like low-blow humour just for the sake of it. I did appreciate the cleverness of the snark though. That's what held some appeal for me. However, degrading people to make oneself look better? I don't see the fun in it. After a while I found it nothing but annoying. Most of the other queens didn't appreciate my attitude and the revenge got pretty nasty. I have to confess, I didn't take it very well though, that wasn't what I had come for. That's why I distanced myself from the scene after a while…"

He waited a moment, but when John was only listening attentively and encouraged him to go on, he continued.

"I also love dancing, as you know, always have, but never got the chance to make use of that. Through certain circumstances I was offered the opportunity to combine both—the dressing and the dancing—so of course I took that chance. And I liked it. A lot. Until I was given to understand that the business was, indeed, 'business' and not for fun, mind you." He rolled his eyes. "That's why I had to stop that on a regular basis as well."

"No drag queen then, no dancer according to the rules either… So, what are you exactly?" John studied Sherlock's face.

"Well, I'm a Dancing Drag Detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job." Sherlock grinned mischievously, and John was certain both of them were thinking back to their first night when John had heard those words for the very first time. Well, not _exactly_ those words; but somehow today's version sounded even better to John's ears.

"However, after a while I started to sneak in here and there, performing for a night or two when the mood struck. To… distract me. From other things. And that's when I found you." Sherlock winked at him.

" _You_? Found _me_?" John shouted in mock annoyance. "Tell me again, _who's_ the Captain here, huh?" He pushed Sherlock over on his back and hovered over him. "True though," he whispered. "You found me. And you saved me!" and he pressed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"You did the same for me." Sherlock responded, calm and serious.

After a moment of drinking in each other's sight, John lowered himself to snuggle against Sherlock's side, to be held in his arms.

"So, your plan is reviving your old life then?" John concluded much more cheerful than he felt.

"Not fully though." Sherlock looked up, studying the ceiling as if he had never seen it before, running his fingertips in ellipses over John's back. "Just dip my toe in a bit, test the waters, refreshing some old contacts..."

"Oh, now you mention it." John frowned and sat up. "I met an old friend of yours."

"A _friend_?" Sherlock scrunched his nose.

"Well, that's what he called himself." John shrugged. "Looked more like an enemy, actually."

Sherlock grunted satisfied.

"Did he offer you money?" Sherlock squinted his eyes suspiciously.

"No…" John tried to recall the man's words. "He said something like… caring is not advisable and that one only gets one's heart broken otherwise?" He knew that wasn't the precise words but he memory of the whole evening was a bit muddled in his brain. The only things he was able to remember very clearly were related to dark night eyes and fan-like lashes, a lean body clad in purple velvet and black leather, tight straps straining over soft flesh, endlessly long legs covered in lace thin like spider-web… "Spider!" John shouted, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes." He called himself Spider!"

Sherlock sat up abruptly. Eyes just as wide as John's.

"Caring is not an advantage; all lives end. It'll burn a heart out of you." Sherlock whispered.

"Yes! Yes, that's it!" John nodded.

In a flash, Sherlock jumped off the bed in all his naked glory and started rummaging in cabinets, picked up his phone, made for the bedroom door. He stopped on his way, looked at a flummoxed John who was still sitting on the bed.

"We have to spice up our game!" he said, voice brimming from eagerness and excitement.

"Spice up? As in 'hot'? As in even more sexy?" John asked, swallowing with difficulty.

"No, John. Spice up as in 'could be dangerous'!" Sherlock lowered his voice and winked at John before he hustled out of the door; John could already hear him on the phone in the living room. 

John flopped back onto the mattress and rubbed one hand over his face. God, he was so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to educate yourself about Drag Drama™ I strongly recommend some episodes/seasons of [RuPaul's Drag Race](https://www.youtube.com/c/rupaulsdragrace)!! Have fun!! 😁
> 
> * * *
> 
> Furthermore I discovered that my betas aren't human, because what they're doing for me and my writing isn't humanly possible!! So, watch out for my two otherworldly betas Jobooksandcoffee and Littleweedwrites!! Check out their works, too!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which John is confused and concerned, John is doubting and delighted, a hope is fulfilled and an illusion shattered...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back 👋
> 
> A big "thank you" to everyone who is still around! Thank you all for your patience while I was "having fun" taking a ride on the rollercoaster called Real Life.
> 
> Now, I'm happy to tell you that this fic is finished. Three more chapters to go, including this one.  
> The boys will experience their very own rollercoaster ride. They will take you along, so fasten your seat belts and have fun! Off you pop... 😈😇🥰
> 
> * * *
> 
> PS.: Check out  
> [this absolutely amazing artwork](https://morgendaemmerung89.tumblr.com/post/633631384168251392/this-is-for-my-dear-friends-loveismyrevolution), which the lovely [@morgendaemmerung89 (on tumblr)](https://morgendaemmerung89.tumblr.com/) made for my story! I'm still completely blown away that she spent her precious time and wonderful talent to draw this beauty for me!! Thank you again, darling 💕

The next couple of weeks were really challenging for them. Almost every night they were out at the clubs—except for the nights when the purple pirate costume was in dire need of a dry clean. There were a couple of clubs they revisited, although mostly it was a different establishment each night—all varying in the wide range of audiences and players in the game. John wondered how many there were and was astonished by the amount of people Sherlock knew.

As Sherlock had predicted, the scene was pretty small and they encountered the same faces from now and then, even though there seemed to be an endless supply of people Sherlock knew but John didn’t. Once, they even left London to meet up with one of Sherlock's former acquaintances; John was horrified at the thought of contributing to the spreading of the nasty germs around the country and objected to going, almost picking a fight about it… surely they could get the required information in any other way? Sherlock convinced him though that it was absolutely necessary and crucial to solve the case.

Overall, whatever they were up to, Sherlock seemed to be brimming from energy and excitement. John on the contrary didn't get the impression they made any progress at all. He also didn’t see much difference regarding the spicing up part—not the way Sherlock had implied at least; no danger beyond the usual at the horizon. The only thing that might hint at an underlying threat was Sherlock sometimes asking him to be particularly careful or to keep an eye out or not to mention this or that during his conversations.

From time to time Sherlock also asked him to change his attitude and demeanor as his so to speak pimp. Sometimes, he wanted John to be more jovial and cheerful, in his conversations just hinting that he wouldn't mind sharing his companion for the right amount of payment. Other nights, he spurred John on to be even more harsh and intimidating than usual and to immediately cut off every single conversation about Miss Pirate whatsoever. Then again on a few occasions, John apparently needed to appear clueless and naive in regards to any offer and any suggestion that he was anything other than Miss Pirate’s devoted and loving boyfriend.

Each time, the genius somehow managed to summon up a new attire for John—with different levels of daddy-vibes, as the man called it—depending on the role Sherlock wanted him to play; always bespoke and complete. And by complete he meant… well, _complete_ —down to the underwear! John wondered and worried if Sherlock expected that during the case the need would arise for John to dress down to his pants; or if that little detail was fully Sherlock-self-indulgent. Same as the fact that John’s side of their wardrobe was slowly but surely filling with a not insignificant amount of suits and probably insanely pricey shirts and trousers and suspiciously snugly fitting boxer briefs. Sherlock assured him that those were paramount for the disguise. Yeah, right…

Some of the outfits John liked better than others, same as the roles they implied for him to play. He managed, but they didn’t all come easy to him. However, one aspect always stayed the same—his roaring protectiveness in the face of the unfaltering interest shown towards his Pirate as she, unlike he himself, never changed her ways as the mysterious mesmerising Miss Pirate.

They hadn’t talked about the night after their first visit to a club, even though a simmering tension kept lingering during their nights out. In a wordless agreement, their shared bath and John cleaning off Miss Pirate’s make-up became their daily—or rather nightly—ritual; as if it would wash away all the insecurity and confusion the case entailed and draw a line in between club-them and home-them.

During the day they were their bickering and teasing and arguing and love-making selves and John couldn’t imagine _anything_ that could possibly come between them. It felt warm and cosy and stable—almost domestic, almost boring; but then nothing was ever boring with Sherlock Holmes. Yet, the nights were filled with excitement, thrill, danger, lust and want and temptation, and a sizzling tension crackling in the air bearing the risk to be set off and explode by the snap of a finger. It was like a drug, making them feel alive and flying high. It was addictive. At the same time it left them vulnerable and fragile, bruised and unstable. It was as if they lived in two different universes at the same time—hopping between them as if cursed by a spell, transforming at night, like a wicked inverse version of “Beauty and The Beast”.

However, at some point the fragile lines had begun to blur. It had all started with some crumpled banknotes in a tea tin. John had found them one morning, sleepily reaching into the cupboard and fishing out the wrong tin. His not yet completely awakened brain hadn't been able to make any sense of it and hadn't deemed it important. So, he had just switched the tins, because brewing a tea out of 50 pound notes would be a shame.

It only popped back up in his mind, when one night after a show he spotted Miss Pirate in a remote corner of the club, talking in hushed tones with the owner. The moment John wanted to approach them, the guy pulled out his wallet, sneakily handing over cash which Miss Pirate immediately shoved into the pocket of her bag.

John hadn't known what to make of it. It was for the case; he knew it was. Or at least, he hoped it was. He didn't want to imagine any other scenario in which it wasn't. Of course, they were paid for The Work, nothing uncommon. But then, this was a case they were consulting for the Yard. More so, the case wasn’t even closed? So, this wasn’t the usual payment for their services. But… what else? As the money apparently ended up in their tea tin, he probably shouldn't worry. However, that was easier said than done. Why wouldn't Sherlock tell him, if it wasn’t anything obscure? Although, why _should_ he tell John, if it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary? Should John ask him? Wasn’t it his duty to ask and make sure that Sherlock was okay? But then, why would it mean Sherlock wasn’t okay? What did John even suspect? On the other hand, was it that far fetched that something fishy went on here? Or should he rather not ask? Maybe it was overbearing? Not his place? Then again, why would Sherlock leave him out? What did he have to hide? If he had to hide anything in the first place. And if not, what would Sherlock think, if John interrogated him about it? Maybe he would think John didn’t trust him. But... did he trust him? God gracious, what a freaking mess! Why was it even such an issue?

It was on John’s mind almost constantly. During the nights he watched out for any shady money exchanges, in the daytime he wondered how Sherlock managed to act completely unfazed. Maybe because he was. But what did that imply? Dammit, he had to stop this! What did it matter anyway? John tried to convince himself that it didn’t. But failed…

Each time feeling a pang of shame heat his face, even though he didn’t exactly know why, John regularly checked the tea tin. With mixed feelings he watched the banknotes accumulate; relieved that they ended up at 221B, worried about the reason for which they found their way there in the first place.

He thought he had been careful and subtle. It seemed however that he had been sorely mistaken. Why was he surprised anyway? Was there anything one could keep hidden from Mr. Obvious? Apparently not. One day, when John had been very innocently preparing their afternoon tea, Sherlock had startled him. They had enjoyed their companionable silence, each going their own way, doing some more or less important stuff. Or rather, nothing important whatsoever. It had been tea time, so John had got up to set their tea. As was their habit. Without any indication Sherlock’s low baritone cut through the cosy quiet of their flat.

“It’s part of the disguise,” he had said without any traceable emotion.

“What is?” John had looked over his shoulder, almost pouring the boiling water over his hand in his surprise.

“The money.” Sherlock had simply said.

“What money?” John’s voice had been a tad too high for sounding completely clueless.

“John, please. Don’t play dumb. It’s insulting my observational skills.” Sherlock had looked blankly at John, who had only swallowed against the sudden nervousness, no clue how to react to being caught out. “We can’t risk arousing any suspicions, so we have to blend in and behave as naturally as possible.”

And that was it. If Sherlock had meant this to be calming somehow, John had to disagree. Okay, for the case, for the disguise. Fine. Sherlock was completely unaffected, so this was Miss Pirate’s natural behaviour? Well… not so fine? Bit not good, actually? He didn’t like that thought. It made his insides coil and revolt. However, he wasn’t able to pinpoint any reason for which he could have addressed and discussed the topic. So, grumpily giving in and warily accepting the situation was his only choice. When the gradually overflowing tea-respectively-money-tin was the only thing coming from it, John’s mood eased a bit even though he never completely calmed down.

As time went by, more than just the content of their tea tin was changing, but it happened in such a slow and subtle way that John didn’t notice it immediately. He was so absorbed in their little roleplay—trying to get it right, trying to stay in control and, admittedly, not only a bit distracted by the irresistible beauty that was the perfectly shaped lean male body only barely covered by the teasingly tight lace and velvet attire, bending, bowing, twisting and twining on stage. The air of ravenous vampire that now inextricably clinged to lashes like raven’s feathers and eyes dark and gleaming like coals didn’t make it any easier for him to concentrate and to have enough working brain cells left to notice the more obscure changes. Really, how could anyone expect him to see… _her_ … and still observe instead of turning into a drooling lump on the floor.

It took him quite a few days before he became aware of Miss Pirate's performances becoming even more daring and provocative than they were to begin with. At first, it was just a leg lifted a tad more, the skirt pushed a bit higher, hips swaying broader, piercing eyes gazing even more seductively.

What shook him awake though, was Miss Pirate leaving the stage during her performances to join the more than pleased audience. It started out innocently with long spider-web-covered legs dangling over the edge of the stage, Miss Pirate in a perfect school-girl manner pouting her perfect lower lip and, by doing so, drawing all the greedy eyes to it. At this point, John was pretty amused by the way Miss Pirate played her spectators. They were fully at her mercy and oh, didn't he know what that felt like… He was a bit less amused when her beautiful bum lifted off the stage and she started sauntering through the rows of chairs and tables, leaving a trace of drooling men in her wake. What wiped out his humour completely though were the touches. A traced jawline, an arm slung around a shoulder, a high-heeled foot sliding up a calf. In the end, it was pretty much the opposite of humour John felt, when the touches were rewarded—in more ways than John would have liked. Who was he kidding though, there was not a single way he'd find bearable Miss Pirate’s touches to be reciprocated. They shouldn't happen in the first place! But the banknotes, suggestively tucked under straining suspenders, into the seam of delicate stockings… into the waistband of fucking far too sexy lace panties, which were supposed to be fucking hidden under a skirt? God damnit! There was a limit to what he could be expected to stomach before losing his manners. Bloody hell!

In the mornings however, the notes joined their friends in the tin and John tried to stay calm, if it had the right to be called 'calm' at this point, and to convince himself that it didn’t mean anything. Nope, it didn’t. Why would it? Sherlock had said so—it was part of the disguise, no? Part of the game. Miss Pirate's natural behaviour. Christ, was _this_ what it had been like in Miss Pirate’s former life all the time?

He realised only then, that he hadn't seen Miss Pirate leaving the stage during her performance, blessing the delighted audience with her company, since this dreadful case had started; even though it had been _the_ essential factor that had brought them together when they first met. Back then, he hadn't thought twice about it, just assumed that it belonged to her standard repertoire. If it hadn't been for Miss Pirate all cat-like stalking up to him and quite literally pinning him down, they wouldn't be here today. Without that, he would have gone home to his horribly boring bedsit that night and, if he would even still be alive at this point, he'd probably still wank over the memories of Miss Pirate grinding and licking the dancing pole. Nobody could expect him to have any reservations about the dancing pole. Not even himself. Jeez, just thinking about it now. Speaking of… Where for fucks sake had all those dancing poles gone to? He needed only one. Just one!! Couldn't be _that_ difficult? Could it?

In retrospect, he maybe shouldn't have begged. He got his request fulfilled much quicker than expected and 'Be careful what you wish for' had never been truer!

They entered the chosen location for the night as always through the back door and also everything else went according to the, what now could be called, 'usual' proceedings. John in tonight's role as the all business man pimp in a black suit with white shirt and black tie, went to check out the establishment. Luxury, clean and decent—obviously a well-run club, not one of those sordid shacks they had encountered on their way.

Even though a lot of it looked familiar, as any other of the standard and interchangeable clubs, the stage here was bigger—a narrow catwalk led from the backstage area to a circular stage in the middle of the club, which allowed a free view from all sides. There were several sort of pointy extensions, not unlike the catwalk, spreading from the stage into the room like crooked fingers. It divided the audience area into different sections, furnished with chairs with small tables or low platforms with comfy looking sofas to lounge in. From there, the stage and its tentacles were freely approachable which left no angles to hide anything by well timed moves. John swallowed. He hoped Miss Pirate was aware of this and had taken it into account. John's hackles rose. He didn't like this one bit!

What he did like though, was—proudly presented center stage, lit by a fuckload of spot lights—a shiny and promising dancing pole. John licked his lips and shifted on his feet. This might be worth the hackles-rising after all.

As usual John wasn’t allowed into the dressing rooms; he suspected it was sort of a safe space for the dancers. Still, it left him a bit at a loss regarding the schedule of the evening. Sherlock had given him vague information, however with John not knowing the other dancers it was difficult to estimate which one was the last to perform before it would be Miss Pirate’s turn.

John knew his place by now though—seaking out conversations, making contact. He was so fucking tired of it. He wished this case would end; rather sooner than later. In the meantime though, he couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to Miss Pirate’s show tonight—finally her delicious body slung around a dancing pole again; he had hoped for this to happen since the very first night they had set foot into a nightclub again. He deserved a bit of a reward for enduring all the teasing of Miss Pirate’s masterful seduction skills, but never being on the receiving end lately. Didn’t he? If only the rest of the audience didn’t get more of a “show” than John was comfortable to share with them.

Mingling the club crowd, he randomly joined persons who looked promising, which in this case meant suspicious, to start a for now superficial conversation—dropping hints about his “business”, hoping the right people would pick up on it. He was getting good at this, maybe he should consider making it an actual business after all, John thought sarcastically. He already had several people contacting him on his website, set up especially for this occasion, although he had left it to Sherlock to deal with them. John himself would have had no idea what to tell them to get rid of them considering there was actually nothing real to offer as it had all been a mere piece of well acted drama. And some kind of drama it was…

It was more than convenient and admittedly not unintended that, while chit-chatting here and there, John got the chance to discreetly check out the view on the stage from all different angles. He was more relieved than he would ever admit that most places didn’t allow free sight under the belt so to speak. Now he could only hope that Miss Pirate’s performance wouldn’t be too enthusiastic tonight. But then… actually… enthusiastic pole dancing wouldn’t be the most awful thing there was. However, considering the circumstances… John growled. God, this was all so fucked up.

The only thing he wished for was to be allowed to watch his Miss Pirate, without being constantly afraid of anyone coming too close, maybe even wanting more of her than John would accept without killing them immediately. Like touching, for example. Or dirty talking to her. Or even devouring her with their gazes. Or actually _anything_ related to her—preferably not even _thinking_ about her! Christ, he had to calm down. There was nothing to it, in the least he had to endure them watching her; he also had no influence on them thinking of her, those wankers. How dare they! But well, mass murder wasn’t an option either...

He sighed, deeply frustrated, and took residence at the bar. Talking to some faceless, meaningless figures he’d forget the instant he turned away, he kept an eye on the stage. He got irritated with an annoying guy that kept very persistently trying to make small talk with him, apparently trying to get in John’s good graces, claiming to be Miss Pirate’s biggest fan. John thought he remembered having seen him a couple of times, but he had never approached John before or had seemed dodgy; one of the brainless club-hoppers disappearing in the mass. He waringly observed the man, but he was only babbling about random nonsense, excited to see Miss Pirate again—obviously just some poor chap drooling after an unreachable fantasy. John though was more and more standoffish with the guy, wanting to be left alone not to miss the entrance of one particular mesmerising performer, because he, too, was desperately waiting for her show.

He shouldn’t have worried as one of the unusual tunes characteristic for Miss Pirate’s shows announced her in time. The babbling guy zoomed out of John’s focus; he only marginally registered him asking, “That’s her, right?”, before he briskly nodded to confirm and waved him away like a blowfly.

As the first tunes kept playing and the stage stayed empty, John kept nervously scanning the three different entering points of the stage as if it would be in any way possible to miss someone as eye-catching as Miss Pirate.

He almost jolted as Miss Pirate suddenly, like the drama queen she was, used the full dramatic effect of a particularly thrilling part of the music to enter the stage with a judo-worthy forward roll, somehow succeeding to protect her hat from flying off. With lightning speed she drew gun, and saber, holding each in one hand as if fighting off an attacker, ending up kneeling on one leg. The other was propped up in front of her, bent and balancing on her high heel, enhancing and showing off the surreal length of her leg. Her strategically well thought through position—facing sidewards, kneeling on the leg in the front—gave the spectator unhindered opportunity to let their eyes wander over the beautifully exposed leg; from the black heeled foot following the criss-crossed laces up to the knee, where the soft pale flesh of Miss Pirate’s inner thigh gave a beautiful contrast to the thin black lace of her stockings. She was leaning forward, legs spread widely supposedly to steady her stance in her imaginary fight against the enemies, but actually deliberately allowing a glance at the black straps peeking out under the front's short purple and black skirt.

After a well calculated dramatic pause to give the willing eye time enough to revel in the spectacular sight, she spun around to take in the same position on the other side, as if to secure the deck of her ship; it made the longer back of her skirt swoosh, revealing more of bare skin and taught straps for a short moment, guiding the gaze to the flash of metal, gleaming in the spotlight, at her back—the handcuffs, as always, resting against the swell of her arse, even more pronounced by the layers of leather and lace covering it.

Apparently done with defending her crew, she twirled her weapons in her hands, stretching her arms while doing so and turning to face the audience—propped up on her spread knees, center stage right in front of the catwalk, stilling her weapons by placing her hands still holding them against her hips. The thrill of the ready to fight weapons held by big but delicate hands, long slender fingers with dark purple painted nails splayed around a slim waist clad in a tight corset of purple velvet, decorated with metal chains and fine embroidery, sent a collective approving hum through the audience.

John licked his lips. Unaware and uninterested in who might observe his reaction, he shifted on his bar stool to make sitting and watching a bit more comfortable in his lower regions. It had only just started but this show already promised to be something special. Not only what the all too present dancing pole implied, but also a performance John had never seen before. Miss Pirate was on fire tonight.

A small but unmissable circling move of her hips snatched John back to full attention. She seemed to scan the audience with narrowed and intimidating dark rimmed eyes, the glittery purple eyeshadow generously applied around them. John could have sworn that her black painted lashes were visible even from where he was standing in the back, when she closed her eyes and threw her hands as well as her head backwards, making hat and weapons fly and land abandoned at the back of the stage. She stayed a moment like this as if to catch her breath, her position expanding her heaving chest, beautifully accentuating her perfectly curved and absolutely naturally looking breasts. She swallowed while her neck was still stretched and exposed and John smirked knowingly, absolutely certain that it had been a deliberate move as Miss Pirate was fully aware of the effect her deliciously long neck had on people, most of all on John, and even more so when playfully partly covered by the high-neck of her see-through sleeveless blouse.

The smirk froze on his lips though, when Miss Pirate’s head snapped forward, dark curls, much more untamed and wild than usual, bouncing around her face and hanging low in her eyes, which immediately locked with John’s. He swallowed hard, he hadn’t expected it. He had been prepared to watch from the sidelines, but was more than pleased to obviously take part in what Miss Pirate had thought up. Oh, yes… pleased didn’t even come close to what he was. Not only his mind but also his body, very particular parts of his body, approved very very much of this unsuspected development. Bar stools were really not made for Miss-Pirate-watching he decided and cursed to have missed out on one of the comfy sofas. And Miss Pirate’s performance had only just begun… God gracious, he hoped the fabric of these trousers was stretchy enough...

Holding John’s gaze, a private amused gleam in her eyes, Miss Pirate dropped forward in one fluid wavelike motion and started… oh really, must she?... crawling over the narrow catwalk. She might have taken that term a bit too literally as she, all feline like, slowly smoothly placed one hand before the other, swaying her hips while shifting her legs forward. She lowered her chin, playing coy, completely contradicted by the sultry look she gave from under her lashes. She really was a tease extraordinaire.

John should have known better as to be agitated by this already, because his state didn’t increase one bit when Miss Pirate made her way all up to the dancing pole in this same manner, winking mischievously at the nearby audience before poking her tongue out and giving the metal pole a chaste and testing and tasting lick. Closing her eyes in pleasure, as if savouring the most delicious taste, she licked her lips and made the dark purple lipstick shine, which accentuated the sinful mouth even more.

John groaned; didn’t he know too well what that tongue was capable of and what such a simple lick could do to a man? His cock seemed to remember pretty well as it insistently showed its interest in a demonstration.

And that was exactly what Miss Pirate was giving to full extent; just not on the rod John would have liked. Slowly licking broad stripes and flicking tiny licks, Miss Pirate made her way up the pole—holding and caressing it with her hands she slowly straightened, caving in her back to present her plush arse, suggestively hidden under a bouncing skirt. By the time that her body was pressed flush against the metal, John could make out more than one man in the audience, discreetly rearranging their private parts; he only barely withstood himself. He did have to keep up a cover after all, he just wasn’t sure how much lusting after your own… uhm… commodities was acceptable.

He actually didn’t really care much, he decided, when Miss Pirate started to roll her torso along the pole in waves, long neck stretched sinfully while her head was bent backwards to rest in her nape. She fluidly alternated between thrusting her hips and pushing her chest against the metal so that the rod was pushing into the crease between her breasts as much as the corset allowed it to. That alone would have been enough to bring a simpler soul, not used to the assault on a man’s libido that was a Miss Pirate in full swing, to the brink of orgasm. However Miss Pirate, of course, had to top it by propping first one than the other foot up to intensify the grinding, until she was held up by one of her lean arms high over head, holding on tight to the pole, her hips hanging low between her bent knees spread as wide as possible. Her other hand was trailing down along the arm holding her up, over her neck, tracing the line the pole formed against her body from between her breasts over the flat belly up to her waist. John was relieved that her splayed hand flattened the front of her skirt over her groin, hiding what John considered his territory… restricted area! If he had thought that would make it more decent he hadn’t entertained the idea that said splayed hand didn’t stop her way down—or rather… back—as it slid further and further between the spread thighs, until John was sure it must reach places it shouldn’t reach for on stage for everyone to witness. Okay, maybe not only a simpler soul was on the brink of coming.

_‘Watson, this is not on! You’re supposed to be all business here! Just imagine you’re selling… well… vacuum cleaners or whatever! Anything actually, just not that unbearably hot creature currently frotting against… damn… not working…’_

John tried to breathe calmly through his nose; the pulse thumping in his ears creating more a dubstep-like sound than the buoyant tune of the pirate theme. No longer sitting on the barstool because that was impossible, he watched enthralled what would come next and barked out an actual laugh when Miss Pirate suddenly pulled out a Jolly Roger—the black flag that was the last detail that marked her as a proper pirate… skull and crossed bones and all—which she apparently had hidden underneath the back of her corset and skirt.

An impish smirk on her face Miss Pirate rose to her full height. Without waiting a single second, she hooked one of her knees around the pole and spun in circles holding onto it with one hand, the Jolly Roger held in the other wafting after her, floating in the stream of air she created.

After she had completed her spins, John was amazed at the canny ways Miss Pirate used the flag to cover the parts of her anatomy not meant for the common public to see. Always teasing enough to not look prudish, leaving enough view on lace panties and suspenders, tempting arse cheeks and loins. However, always just in time to not allow a full view under the skirt. It was a risky game, but then that was exactly the way Miss Pirate liked to play. As did John.

The moves she showed were bold and daring of the sort John hadn’t seen before. John wondered where she had exercised or if this was like riding a bike or swimming—one time learned, never forgot. No matter which way, it all seemed to come naturally to Miss Pirate. She was obviously in her element and enjoying herself, as she tilted and stretched her legs, high above her head at times, which gave John some very tempting new ideas about how to make use of their walls at 221B. Her hands were roaming all over her own body, she was gliding and whirling up and down the dancing pole. John watched in awe and admiration and flaming desire to pick this purple whirlwind from that pole and explore what else those bendy limbs were good for.

One time Miss Pirate was even hanging upside down, inevitably the skirt was victim to gravity and displayed—to John’s horror—the complete perfectness of flesh and skin and lace and straps and belt and panties… and a Jolly Roger conveniently draped over one particularly private part. John smirked at the wickedness of his partner—he was certain that all the men in the audience were cursing that darn flag whereas John was thinking about a proper way to honour it. Maybe it would look nice as a blindfold…

John wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Miss Pirate was, still hanging upside down, bending her upper body upwards, taking hold of one corner of the flag with her teeth and pulling on it teasingly slowly while lowering herself again. Just when John froze because he thought the cloth would slip all the way off, Miss Pirate flipped over in a sort of somersault and planted herself steadily on the stage on her knees again. Flush high on her cheeks, hair in a messy disarray, she still held the Jolly Roger between her bright teeth, which flashed in a sharp contrast against the devilishly grinning dark mouth.

Without giving her audience a single moment to recover, she let her herself fall forwards, lying face down on the stage. One could have mistaken it for a break to get her breath back, if not for the ripples running through the slender body, which turned into rolling waves almost immediately until Miss Pirate pushed her upper body up, her face a picture of pure pleasure.

Her hips were thrusting in an unmistakable display, always stopping just short of making contact with the stage; it couldn’t have much effect for herself. For her audience however the effect was more than most men could stand. The adjusting of uncomfortable boners wasn’t all that discreet anymore, in some cases rather bordering on indirect wanking through layers of pants and trousers. Most legs were crossed by now to hide obvious evidence. Some less modest guys on the contrary granted their dicks some extra space to extend and show off and were proudly manspreading in their seats.

John didn’t care which sort they belonged to, he hated them all. At this point he wanted Miss Pirate to end her performance, preferably right this instant, for more than one reason. One of them was that he didn’t desire to end up in jail for homicide; the other that he didn’t want to embarrass himself by coming in his pants.

He sighed in relief when Miss Pirate left her cursed current position to roll over on her back, but had to give his throbbing and straining erection a hard squeeze when the endeavour of a phatomime-fucking Miss Pirate went on even worse. Her back arching until it tilted off of the surface of the stage, her hips lifting and rolling and thrusting in the air, the Jolly Roger held in her hands and was pulled to slide back and forth between her legs.

This… this was almost unbearable. No—not almost. It _definitely_ was. John closed his eyes, took some steadying breath, only marginally noticing the occasional guy leaving for the toilets. Probably excusing themselves with the last beer making demands when actually a completely different reason was much more likely. John wouldn’t have minded some… uhm… relief himself, but he couldn’t risk leaving Miss Pirate out of his sight; which reminded him that it would probably be wise to open his eyes for that.

He froze from horror the moment he looked at the stage again. Miss Pirate was gone! He cursed his dick-driven mind—how long had his eyes been closed? Damnit!!

Frantically he searched the room with his eyes only to blow out an audible sigh of relief when he spotted dark curls and a purple dress further in the back of the room on one of the podiums in the audience. He frowned. Wait… it was definitely no relief he felt when he watched Miss Pirate bend forwards and entertain some horny pig by running her purple nails along his jaw. John watched in horror how one of those hateful banknotes found its way into the thankfully lace clad décolleté of Miss Pirate’s skin tight purple corset.

_'Ahhhhh, careful there, mister, if you don't want to find your meagre piggy-tale in a stew!'  
_

To John’s immense relief Miss Pirate abandoned the disappointed man rather quickly. She kept teasing the drooling guys in the audience with coquettish gazes and winks, with playful hands only barely touching shoulders and backs, never lingering long enough for the men to reach out and get hold of her. Although they tried. Of course they did! Who wouldn't, having the exotic beauty of Miss Pirate in arm reach… John understood that urge completely. Didn't mean he had to like it.

He had almost succeeded in convincing himself that this was acceptable, when Miss Pirate suddenly changed her tactic. She sauntered and flaunted herself on and off the stage, following the weird tendrils from one side to the other like weaving a net. She criss-crossed the stage, each time she passed the pole she took hold and swung herself around it, leaving the audience in breathless and restless anticipation as to which part of the room she would bless with her attention next.

Even John himself felt the tension rising each time Miss Pirate was about to leave the stage again—balancing herself on her heels as if it took no effort whatsoever, her hips swaying broadly while she was strutting over the narrow extensions spreading from the stage in all directions.

Enraptured, John watched—torn between fascination and fury—as Miss Pirate made defenceless men whimper, gasp, and groan; steadying herself on shoulders, sliding hands over torsos, accidentally scratching nails over nipples, leaning her bum against backrests, swaying her behind just the tad too close in front of a poor sod’s face, tracing inner seams of trousers with the tip of her toes. As often as they sensed their opportunity, greedy hands were trying their luck, most of the time failing to get what they aimed for. Nonetheless, the bouquet of banknotes grew, and to John's indescribable disapproval each single one was rewarded with a cheeky wink.

Through all of it, Miss Pirate’s Jolly Roger flag followed her everywhere—most of the time just floating through the air, randomly brushing and tracing the heated skin of her admirers, but also conveniently helping out with covering herself, with blinding her audience accidentally or on purpose, cuffing and trapping too eager and unwanted hands. The more daring her advances, the jumpier John was. This including-the-audience-part really wasn’t his favourite. Not At All.

Even though he knew it was not part of the plan and unlikely to happen, he caught himself foolishly gagging for a single glace in his direction or the tiniest bit of attention like the worst kind of groupie; while at the same time he had difficulties to retain the urge to snatch her out of reach of any male being which wasn’t himself and lock her up in an impregnable tower like the worst kind of overprotective dad. Dad? Did he honestly just think _‘dad’_? Jeez… apparently this daddy-vibes-thing was getting to him a bit too much…

When he had already given up hope and had settled in his doomed spectator-from-the-sidelines-role, the last tendril Miss Pirate chose to stroll about was the one pointing in his direction. As if she had been aware of his location in the room all along she immediately locked eyes with him the moment she turned his way. His groupie-daydreams fulfilled, John’s breath got caught in his throat and his face heated up. He tried to reboot his brain because Miss Pirate was watching him with an intense stare he wasn’t quite able to interpret. Was she trying to communicate something? Was she giving him any hints?

Making her way through the paths between the tables and chairs of her silently begging admirers, she kept glancing at John as often as possible and John’s muddy mind tried to figure out the reason. Suddenly stopping in the midst of her stroll, she just stood there facing John, looking at him. He almost jumped up to elbow his way through the crowd to get to her because obviously there was something wrong, but before he could get his body moving he froze and his stomach dropped.

Miss Pirate threw him one last look then lowered her eyes to the man sitting in front of her, who was invitingly holding out his hand. She took it without hesitation and John’s mouth dropped open when she guided that hand to her waist, running her other hand through the man’s blond hair and slung her flag around his neck to pull him closer. Or herself closer? John didn’t trust his senses anymore. Because… she wouldn’t, would she? No, she can’t… she didn’t… Shit... she did…

In disbelief and with a bleeding heart John watched as Miss Pirate sweetly traced the lucky chap's chin with her finger while she pulled them closer and closer still; the traitorous Jolly Roger her silent accomplice. She blew the slimeball of a man a kiss, then pretending she got weak in her knees, she landed in the guys lap, straddling his thighs. The notes tucked under the straps shifting, a single one escaping and floating to the floor.

John closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and tried to be the professional he was not. This was… not good. Not good at all. They hadn’t agreed on this. They hadn’t even discussed this. But then they hadn’t discussed any of the other things either. But this was different. Wasn’t it? Was it? God, John didn’t know any more.

Looking back up he was immediately met by Miss Pirate’s razor blade sharp gaze. What the fuck did she want from him? Never breaking eye contact with John she was writhing on the other man’s lap, rolling her hips in time with the music, licking her slightly parted lips. Tugging on her prey’s hair, Miss Pirate made the man look up at her and John for the first time got a glimpse at the face of the man with the dead-wish. He scowled. That face was a bit too familiar. That fucking bastard. Her biggest fan? Yes, John could see that now… God, he should have treated Miss Pirate’s lovely admirer to a cosy little get-together with his fist when he still had a chance. What a wasted opportunity! He instantly hated everything about that man—his short blond hair, his casual but still stylish clothes, his compact and muscular build, his smug smile, the silvery chain around his neck, the… wait, were those… dog tags? A military man? Honestly?

John wondered if the fume building within him was actually visible on the outside—escaping his ears? Setting his face on fire? It most certainly was, as Miss Pirate had the guts to still hold his eyes while she was literally making out with another guy. How dare she? John wanted to look away, but wasn’t able to. So, he had to bear the image of another man’s hands grabbing Miss Pirate’s thighs while she made bedroom eyes at John. He had to witness another man lean forward and press his face between her breasts, while she grabbed his hair and bit her lips, hooded gaze fixed on John. He had to endure the guy’s greedy hands gliding up the most delicious neck in the universe, Miss Pirate tilting her head, looking from under her fluttering lashes into John’s narrowed eyes. When those hands that were not his’ reached the glorious curls and fingers tangled into the shiny chocolate hair to pull it, his churning guts turned into a thunderstorm; because he knew what it fucking did to Miss Pirate—it was the one thing that always, without failure, did his partner in. He fucking knew, that the way Miss Pirate closed her eyes in pleasure was too fucking real.

He couldn’t stand this any longer! This was… it was too much. Miss Pirate had taken it too far this time. What he hated most was the way he was equally disgusted and turned on by the picture Miss Pirate presented. He could literally feel her in his own lap, his growing erection evidence of the intensity of those memories; however, they were only the ghosts of what the other guy had literally and metaphorically at hand right this moment.

He turned and slammed his empty tumblr that hard on the bar that he was certain the clang of glass on wood would echo through the entire club. He already headed for the door, torn between fleeing the scene and not wanting to leave Miss Pirate to the apparently immensely appealing Mister Military.

He felt a prickle in his neck and when he turned her piercing eyes followed him through the room. He glared at her. This was beyond all boundaries of what was okay. He was about to look away when she finally rose again, not without teasing her chosen one as well as John by whispering something in the panting man’s ear. That piece of shit had the guts to laugh and smile at her, shove a considerable stack of cash under the seam of the willingly presented stocking with a wink. One last trail of a finger on the guy’s throat, one last look into John’s eyes and Miss Pirate turned and slinked her way over to the stage. Without knowing how much time had passed, without being aware of anything around him, John had only eyes for the enigmatic and enraging creature wrapping an entire room full of people around her finger. Damn her for thinking she could do that to him. He could barely wait,Just she wait, he was definitely giving her a piece of his mind on this matter.

Crawling back onto the stage—because… of course she would; John almost rolled his eyes—Miss Pirate gave some attention to the dance pole again. Although, this time she was only leaning her back against it, letting her head fall back as if being tired and taking a break. Her legs, bent und propped up on the heels one after the other, told a different story though. John narrowed his eyes; what was next? After everything he had witnessed this night, he was becoming slightly suspicious.

Miss Pirate though only stretched languidly. Approvingly, she ran her fingers over own body, flipping and wiggling the paper of her tonight's earnings with a saucy smirk and wink to the audience. Fully aware of the effect it had she was showing off her long limbs—legs exaggerated by heels that could be used as a murder weapon, arms looking surreally long reaching up along the dancing pole, which she was gripping high above her head.

Later he thought, he should just have trusted his gut feeling, because suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Miss Pirate was taking firm hold of the pole, swung herself backwards and up in a somersault kind of roll, came standing steadily on her feet again facing the backstage stage area—leaving the audience with the view of the pole pressed against her back, legs spread, hips tilted to accentuate her arse pushed against the metal, hands behind her back still holding onto the Jolly Roger and—John inhaled sharply—cuffed with their own handcuffs around the pole. John’s eyes flipped up, looking for a clue about what was going on, but the back of Miss Pirate’s curly head was all he got to see before the dramatic pirate’s tune accumulated into one last thundering note and the room went dark.

John cursed. Fucking hell, she couldn’t be serious. This couldn’t be real. He pushed himself through the whooping and cheering mass of visitors of the club, bumping against them in the dark, not caring for the enraged muttering he caused on his way. This absolutely stupid silly insane foolish moron of a Pirate. What was she thinking. Jesus Fucking Christ on a Cracker. Dammit!

The lights went back on and John’s heart sank. The stage was empty, Miss Pirate gone.

Shit! Shit shit shit! John frantically searched the room, scanning the slightly confused faces of the audience. His stomach dropped in dread when he spotted the empty chair of John’s freshly chosen new arch enemy. Fuck! Not good. Not good at all! What to do? What to dooooo?

_‘Okay, don’t panic, you’re not a three year old losing his parents in a store, Watson! Most obvious? Back stage! Okay. Go!’_

As fast as his trembling legs would carry him, John made his way through the club, hurried back stage, looked into every corner, scanned the corridors, threw open doors he in retrospect would have preferred to have left shut, until his hand reaching for the handle of the next door froze mid air. A very _very_ familiar dark rumbling laughter emerged from behind it, mixed with giggles in high pitched voices. Unmistakably Miss Pirate, apparently in the company of fellow dancers; talking and laughing as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Somehow, this spiked John’s anger even more than actual danger would have. Was this all just a joke to her? Here he was panicking and she was… what?... having fun? John growled. There were definitely some things he needed to set straight. _'Oh, Miss Pirate… watch out. Now, you’re definitely in danger…'_

So, he waited. He positioned himself in a dark corner of the hallway and observed; his mood hanging over him like a dark cloud heavy from an approaching thunderstorm, keeping everyone at a safe distance. The glances thrown his way were suspicious, estimating and... if he wouldn't know better... bordering on frightened. Did he know better though? Did he know anything right now? Wasn't that the entire problem?

When he spotted a flash of purple from the corner of his eyes his guts started churning and his heart rate spiked to unknown heights, thrumming and pulsing through his body, flashing his system with adrenaline, setting a beat that only exhilarated the tension of his nerves, ready to snap like the strings of Sherlock's violin.

Animatedly chatting with one of her fellow dancers, Miss Pirate made her way in his direction. He prepared to jump her—not _that_ way obviously—but he had to be quick to catch her by surprise. Wait... chatting? They were... Chatting? Sherlock? John frowned. Oh well, but then this wasn't Sherlock but Miss Pirate. He still hadn't gotten used to her on an everyday-day-life basis. He wondered if he ever would and if he even wanted to. She was special in every way and to him she always would be.

Distracted by his musings he almost missed the moment. He launched forward and snatched her by her wrist. She yelped, surprised... Well, as much as a panther was able to yelp, at least… He pulled her into the shadows, pulled her close; he could hear her harsh breath, could feel the warm puffs on his skin.

"What do you think you're doing?" John whispered into her face.

"Working," Miss Pirate hissed through gritted teeth. "What else?"

"Don't know! You tell me!" John growled. "Looked like you had a lot of fun out there."

"Don't you have fun when you're working, _Doctor_?" Miss Pirate snarled, restrained, for his ears only.

"That's different and you damn well know it." John could barely contain his temper anymore. The poorly suppressed anger made his voice waver, made it unsteady.

"So, tell me! Do you want me to go out there and Do. The. Work. or not? You do have to make a decision, you know!" Miss Pirate raised her voice as well.

"You damn well know, we have to. _You_ have to!" John almost yelled. "But not like that! Not like _that_!"

"Like _what_?" Miss Pirate narrowed her eyes, the dark lines around her beautiful eyes almost met and only enhanced the fierceness of her gaze. John almost flinched back from her, but just _almost_.

"Lap dances? Seriously?" Every single ounce of John's restraint went up in smoke at Miss Pirate's display of indifference. "Did you honestly have to? I don't think so! I think _those_ are _mine alone_! You do have to find a different way to get what you want!" John shouted.

"Oh, do I?" Miss Pirate pulled back, put space between them and raised one of her perfectly traced eyebrows dismissively. One corner of her purple lips pulled down, she very nearly spat, "And why would _that_ be, _Captain_?"

John's hands clenched into fists at his side, fighting the urge to grab the infuriating creature in front of him by her shoulders and shake her; ask her what game she was playing; if she _was_ playing a game. God, she had to! All this couldn't be true. Jesus…

John made a step towards her, staring into those familiar eyes watching him in such a foreign way that a shiver ran down his spine.

"Because you'd better not forget who you belong to." he said low but vehemently, insistently. Miss Pirate stared him down, quite literally, and they seemed to fight a wordless battle by gazes alone. In the end, Miss Pirate looked down, sniffed and turned away.

"Piss off!" she spat sharply over her shoulder while starting to walk away and John's stomach dropped. Really? That was it? A freezing tightness clenched his heart.

"Funny that _you'd_ say that…" he shouted after her. It had escaped his mouth before he was able to stop himself.

Miss Pirate turned on her needle thin heels. Her eyes were blown wide. The look she gave him was such a tumult of emotions that John's heart tumbled in response.

She swallowed, nodded, turned and walked away; and left John behind, who stared after her—confused, angry, frightened and… alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which the situation is heating up... and then... the situation is Heating Up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> ... see you on the other side... muahahaaa 💜😈💜
> 
> me xxx
> 
> PS.:  
> (one of my betas asked me to add a bucket of ice water... Unfortunately, there's no ice-water-bucket-emoji. My apologies.)

John slammed the door shut behind him—at least he tried, but that damned thing just slowly and silently slid shut and snapped into its lock. He scowled at it as if the stupid door would care. For good measure he also punched it with his fist, which he regretted immediately.

He exhaled sharply, turned away from the door and leaned against the rough wall in the grimy back alley, annoyingly lit by cheap red spots. He closed his eyes to block it all out—the alley, the lights, the noise and smell, the memories, the emotions.

He let his head fall back against the cracked plaster with a thud. God, how much he craved one of Sherlock's cigarettes right now, even though he didn't even smoke. Just something to occupy his hands and mouth with to not punch the wall and scream out his frustration.

The scrunch of gravel under approaching footsteps startled him. His eyes snapped open and he turned, filled with hope. Sherlock? Did he follow him? But the moment he caught sight of the person walking up to him, his guts turned and his stomach dropped.

"You?" he spat in disgust. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Trouble in paradise, Captain?" the sickeningly sweet voice cooed. "Do you and your lovely pirate have a little domestic?"

"How did you find us? What do you want?" John clenched his fists. The psychopathic smile on the fishy face of the cold sleek man he had encountered on their first night, didn't do anything to ease his rattled mood.

"I didn't need to _find_ you," the man said dismissively, shedding his overly polite attitude. "They call me the Spider for a reason. I keep a close watch on my net and maintain it clean of critters. I have my ears and eyes _everywhere_ , I never need to _find_ someone."

"Then what do you want?" John stood his ground, tried to radiate all the confidence he didn't actually feel, because this was definitely not good. Not good at all. This man gave him the creeps.

However, the self proclaimed Spider didn't react to John's interrogation. He slowly moved closer and sidled from one of John's sides to the other, narrowing his eyes.

"What is it that you have that nobody else does?" he snarled.

John furrowed his brow in confusion. What did that psycho mean?

"How did you tame her? Your… Pirate," he huffed, never ceasing his irritant pacing. "She never bowed to anyone."

"Oh, believe me, she does bow for me," John smirked; he couldn't just ignore an innuendo presented so willingly. His smile fell quickly though.

"As it seems, not for much longer, isn't that right, Captain?" the slimy Spider chirped.

John felt all the blood drain from his face. His eyes narrowed to slits and he felt an icy cold spread in his chest.

"What do you mean?" he hissed.

"I told you, but did you listen?" the other man sing-songed.

"What…" John felt the dread and terror creep through his veins.

"Oh, don't worry, it happens to the best of us. I told you, they all leave eventually—all lives end, all hearts are broken…" the creep sighed as if truthfully empathic.

"Where is she? What have you done to her?" John yelled, jumping forwards, taking hold of the slimeball's suit's lapels.

Suddenly two buffy guys appeared out of the shades, positioning themselves to each side of John's opponent, and John felt inclined to let go of the man.

"My… Captain," the other man flattened and straightened his jacket. "Westwood!" he said shocked, as if that would mean anything. "Don't worry," he continued appeasingly, " _I_ would never hurt as much as one of the curly hairs on Miss Lamentory's pretty head. And she's _exactly_ where she's supposed to be."

John watched the man and his minions suspiciously. Something was very very wrong.

"However," the man rubbed his chin in mock contemplation, "I wonder how the news would be received that she's about to leave the country…"

"What?" John trembled, barely able to contain his agitation. He was about to choke the man, if only he wouldn't need him alive to get more information out of him. "What do you mean?"

"Just imagine… wouldn't it kill that lovely landlady of yours were she notified of your breakup?"

"What? Our what?" Definitely choking the man in about a minute, just… "What have you done?"

"Oohhh, I've done nothing." The man's eyes widened and he raised his hands in a defending gesture. "But… the poor woman's heart… she isn't the youngest anymore, is she now?" he looked apologetically at John, who didn't know if to attack or to run. "You don't need to worry though. The paramedics will take good care of her…" He had the indecency to smirk and John's insides froze.

"Paramedics?" He immediately fished for his phone and dialed Mrs Hudson's number. Already running past a laughing Spider-guy, John begged his phone to go over. "If you have hurt one of them, I'll kill you! I promise!!" he yelled back over his shoulder.

"Moi?" The man exclaimed, fake scandalized.

"Fuck. Off." John shouted back at him while hurrying down the alley.

"I will, sweetheart, I will, don't you worry. All in good time..." he heard the man chirp, just before he turned the corner to catch the next possible cab.

Restlessly shifting on the back seat of the cab, he kept fiddling with his phone. Alternating between calling Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, but neither of them picked up. John feared the worst—the love of his life lost, wonderful Mrs Hudson on the brink of death? Bloody hell, how had it all gone so wrong?

Even more worried when he didn't see any flashing lights at Baker Street when they turned the corner—had the ambulance already left? Had he missed his last moment with Mrs Hudson?—he almost forgot to pay the cabby in his haste to get to 221A. Arriving there, he immediately heard the noise—Iron Maiden roaring in an ear-splitting volume from Mrs Hudson's headphones.

John was frozen in place, his mind struggling to catch up. Whut? Dumbstruck, he stared at the woman happily swaying to the music. When she realised that she was being watched she pulled off the headphones and looked at John; her expression shifted from cheerful to worried in a nanosecond.

"John, dear, what's happened?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

"Are you alright, Mrs Hudson?"

"Of course, I am, love. Never been better. Why?" She tilted her head.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" his voice was hoarse and faint. He actually knew the answer already.

"Not since you left together earlier tonight. Wasn't he with you?" The wrinkles on Mrs Hudson's face multiplied in wariness.

John, with the reaction period of a stone, or rather an entire mountain, was still glued to the spot, Mrs Hudson tried to get a response after all, "John? What happened?"

"Fuck. Shit." He turned on his heels. Rude, he knew it, but he had no time for decency. "Buggering fucking _Shit_!" he actually yelled, storming down the street, trying to catch a cab while running. He faintly heard Mrs Hudson call after him, but there was only one direction he could think of—back to the club.

The first thing John noticed when he arrived there was the chilly silence surrounding the club. The atypical emptiness of the street and the blatant lack of people were downright frightening. Where there had been busy bustling not long ago, now there was not a single person to be seen.

Suspicious tension made his posture go rigid when he pushed open the front door to the club, which was invitingly left ajar, and entered the dimly lit hall. The corridors were quiet as well, but there were muffled voices coming from the club's main room. One of them was a painfully familiar dark rumbling, the other one that hateful high-pitched chirp he knew far too well by now.

John couldn't recognise a single word of what was spoken, so he moved closer to the doorway leading into the heart of the establishment, trying to silence his footsteps. He drew his gun which had been neatly tucked into the back of his waistband the entire time and scanned every corner of the room for any possible threat.

His pulse was throbbing in his ears and was muffling all noises even more. He cursed inwardly; he couldn't afford missing the tiniest sign of danger or signal to act. First of all though, he had to find out what was going on in the first place. It didn't need a genius to know that this wasn't the cosiest of situations they could find themselves in.

Finally able to peer around the corner of the doorway, John's breath hitched and his throat burned in the attempt to keep his breathing quiet.

There was Sherlock, dressed like John had never seen him before—all of Miss Pirate's glamourous dress up gone, replaced by ragged denims and something that looked like one of John's white vests, as well as heavy boots on his feet. What had happened to the make up was difficult to tell as the man was on his hands and knees, head bowed, curls hanging over his face; ruffled as if quickly and carelessly freed from products, so very un-sherlocky.

All this was worrisome enough, but it was only the peak of an iceberg. The iceberg in this case was Sherlock being literally presented center stage, fully lit in blinding spot light. This left the audience area in an impenetrable darkness, which made the hair in John’s nape rise in alarm. To add to the not quite comforting display, Sherlock was flanked by the two gorillas that had followed around the man who called himself Spider and also, which made John’s blood boil, Miss Pirate’s self-proclaimed “fan”. The cherry on top of the iceberg-cake was the gun pointed at Sherlock by said fan. Well, _that_ was one hell of a way to thank someone for a fantastic lap dance one hadn’t even any right to receive… But that was really not the point right now. The actual point was… What The Fuck!!

Only now, without a crowd blocking his view, with it flooded in bright light, John realised that the tendrils spreading out from the stage weren’t just funny gadgets. There were eight of them, four to each side. Spreading out like legs. Creepy, nauseating, spidery legs. Spider-legs. Him! All the anger and fury and rage built up during the last weeks... month? years, maybe… all that rose to the surface and made it difficult for John not to explode on the spot.

John wasn’t able to make much sense of anything right now, but one thing he was sure of—he couldn’t do this alone. He fumbled for his phone, tried to unlock it and dial without losing sight of what was going on on stage. Finally, he succeeded to call Lestrade and only when he picked up John realised that he could hardly speak aloud without being heard. So he tried to whisper as urgently as possible; unfortunately the background noises of a driving car seemed to drown him out. When Greg shouted, “John, is that you?”, into the speaker, John reflexively hung up, afraid Greg’s yelling could be heard all through London. One handedly he texted, _‘Bring backup! Come NOW!’_ , together with his location. And immediately pocketed his phone again to have both hands on his gun.

"You'll never get what you want!" he heard Sherlock say and peered around the corner, trying to estimate the perfect moment and the urgency to step in.

"Oh, but I already have." The hateful sleek voice of the just as much sleek and hateful man it belonged to sounded from somewhere within the dark.

John’s head snapped around. There he was, the creep. _‘Good, that’s good, keep talking, Slimey, so I can locate and eliminate you!’_ As soft-footed as possible John sneaked around the corner and pressed himself against the closest wall in the shadows. _‘Easy, Watson. Don’t fuck this up._ ’ Slowly, in snail-like speed, John tiptoed closer to the spot where he thought the Spider-guy must be.

"There're people out there looking for me." Sherlock snarled and John froze. Had Sherlock spotted him? If he had, would the others have as well? Apparently not, he thought hearing those next words. However, they weren't a relief nonetheless.

"Oh, but definitely not your little Soldier-Captain.” The Spider’s voice dripped from sarcastic satisfaction. “He left without you, remember? I told you, I saw him grab a cab with my own eyes..."

John stopped himself just in time before he gasped. _‘Damnit. That disgusting creature really had it all orchestrated to the detail’_... And true to John’s fear, Sherlock’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes—showing his opponent the perfect sore spot to further dig his greasy fingers in.

"He is free to do as he wants to do. I don't care." Sherlock huffed, and it sounded much too sincere for John’s liking.

"But we both know that's not quite true, don't we?" The man’s sickeningly sweet voice oozed through the darkness. John sneaked up on the man a bit more with each word he spoke. He didn't make progress as fast as he'd liked to because he had to take care not to bump into any obstacles or tackle a chair standing in his way.

"Leave him out of it." Sherlock barked and flung himself up. Immediately pressed down on his knees again by his loving fan, Sherlock hissed but managed to at least stay upright. For the first time, John was able to look properly at Sherlock’s face and held his breath upon the raw emotion contorting it. Sherlock’s soul was stripped bare, he was showing his feelings in a way that warmed and terrified John in a dizzying contradictional way.

"Oh, I fully intend to, sweetheart, I really do.” The man in the dark laughed lunatically. “But will _you_ be able to leave him… out?” The clearly audible smirk in the man’s voice was appalling. John’s insides churned. The man was much too complacent.

“He’s a free man. As am I.” Sherlock said icily, his face blank now.

The same moment two more men entered the room and joined the gorillas on stage. John stopped in his snail tracks not to give himself away. He swallowed. Fuck, this didn’t make things any easier. Yeah, but… when had things ever been easy regarding a certain dickhead detective who loved to get himself in trouble?

“Checked the back door, boss.” One of the guys slurred, apparently equipped with the brain of a mayfly.

“Oh… I bet you did.” Spider-guy said smugly. “You naughty boys. Can’t keep your hands off each other, can you?” He chuckled playfully. But neither of the mayflies seemed to get the joke and empty eyes just stared out of empty heads.

John however winced and cursed inwardly. His only hope was that they hadn’t locked the door, otherwise they’d lose precious time when Lestrade and his team arrived. Speaking of… where the hell were they?

His attention was snapped back and focused again by a hustle on stage. Sherlock had made a move to get away from fan-man, probably trying to make use of the abated focus on him. Regrettably, the Spider immediately yelled, "Moran!!". Apparently that was what fanboy was called, as he launched forward and yanked Sherlock back by his shoulder, grabbing him by his curls and tugging hard. Despite being trapped like this Sherlock kept struggling and resisting, which ended in the very undesirable situation of the previously pointed-at-Sherlock-gun now transferred to be a pressed-against-Sherlock’s-head-gun.

"That's a good lad, Seb." The voice sounded from much closer already.

John took advantage of Spider-man's distraction and shuffled a few quick steps in the direction he hoped was the right one. John’s heart and mind were racing. The rest of him settled and calmed into hyper-focused battle mode. He was almost within reach. Almost. If Lestrade didn’t get his arse over here anytime soon, John couldn’t wait much longer.

"Now be a good boy and keep your hands to yourself. You've got your own toys. This is mine." The threat in the words, pressed through grinning teeth, was apparent.

Baffled, in a mix of disbelief and disgust, John watched the heretofore fierce and combative Moran lower his eyes and blush. He complied with the order and released Sherlock's curls, even patted him on his head. Sherlock responded with a hiss and a jerk of his head, but instead of the curls the man took hold of the vest and in no time his gun and Sherlock's temple were back in contact.

“Right now, you don’t look very free to me, honey.” The Spider sing-songed, but his voice turned filthy the very next moment. “And that’s also not what your honourable soldier is thinking. He’s pretty proud of having tamed you, is what he said.”

“Did he?” Sherlock hissed, his eyes turning into ice-cold lasers. John grit his teeth. That bastard of a Spider. That disgusting piece of shit. He was toying with Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock couldn’t believe him. He wouldn’t, would he?

“Oh, do you already regret having bowed to him? Or _for_ him as he smugly assured me.” The man pierced his knife deeper into the open wound. “That’s what you get for trusting people, darling. It’s a weakness. Never be the weak one, always stay at the top of the food chain, that’s my motto.”

“Oh, but then you have miscalculated.” Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits and he tilted his head; to John’s sheer horror he pressed his temple even firmer against the nuzzle of the gun. “According to my knowledge there are several natural predators for spiders. To name some of them… Owls and bats for example. And hedgehogs.”

Somehow, John knew that was his signal. He was almost close enough to just tackle the man, but all the fricking furniture was working against him.

“Don’t worry, I keep my nook tidy and well guarded. No predators—natural or not—ever got to me.” He spread his arms as if to say ‘look, here I am’ and John had to give him that; he had at least taken good care of himself.

Only a couple of obstacles left to circle but the man rose from his chair. _‘No, no, nonononono…’_ John chanted and pleaded in his head. John had to make a beeline around chairs and tables blocking his way. He had to hurry, at the same time he had to be careful—apparently, the other man as well as his bulky mayflies hadn’t noticed him yet thanks to the shadows; he couldn’t screw this up now. He was so close.

“I won’t let anyone get to you, honey. Do you hear? _No-one!_ ” The Spider said, fire and ice battling in his voice. He moved away from his seat in direction of the stage, which was also in John’s direction and into the open space. _‘Yes, good. That’s good. Come here, little Spider boy. Come to daddy…’_

“I can assure you, that your pretty curly head will be as safe as it has ever been. There’ll be absolutely no threat where I am taking you…”

Taking Sherlock? John saw red—he darted the last steps forward and flung himself on the man’s back. Slinging his right arm around his throat he held him in a vice-like grip, pressing his gun against his head with the other hand.

“You won’t take her anywhere, mister! Not on my watch!” John shouted sharply.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, seemingly sincerely surprised and shocked. The hurt flashed through John like high voltage; had Sherlock really thought John had left him behind?

The man in his grasp squirmed but—to John’s immense irritation—didn’t seem to be intimidated in the slightest.

“Oh, isn’t he sweet? The knight in shining armour coming to rescue his damsel in distress after all…” The pompous arse cooed, completely indifferent to the threat John’s gun and John’s anger formed. “John… So cute. An ordinary name for an ordinary man. You’ve almost tricked me, little soldier. Almost…” he grinned over his shoulder at John, while snapping his fingers and more men emerged from the sidelines.

_‘Bugger… He really wouldn’t mind for Lestrade to show up now. There was only so much a gun and a homicidal soldier could do…’_

“So, take a good last look at your… _Pirate_ , Captain,” the man said mockingly, “before I skin you and turn you into shoes…”

“You know nothing, Moriarty. Leave him alone!” Sherlock called. “This is between you and me.”

_‘Moriarty? Interesting. The guy has a name after all. One to never forget again… and that’s a promise…’_

“Exactly, sweetheart. That’s exactly the reason why he has to go. And I’m looking very much forward to the things between you and me…” he purred, but was immediately silenced by John’s arm tightening around his throat.

“If you lay as much as a finger on her…” John growled and pressed the nuzzle of his gun forcefully against Moriarty’s head. From the corner of his eye John saw Moriarty’s men come into action, but Moriarty waved them off.

“I told you I wouldn't touch her.” He croaked through his squeezed throat. “I only like to watch her dance...”

John snarled and wanted to put the scum of a man in his place when suddenly the club burst into action. From all sides policemen, armed and masked, stormed the establishment and stood their ground against Moriarty’s henchmen. Moriarty, sensing his opportunity, snatched himself from John’s grip and made for the small exit behind the bar. John however, by now used to hunt down criminals of all sorts at Sherlock’s side, looked right through Moriarty’s plan and ran after him. He caught a glance of Sherlock elbowing Moran in the stomach and bringing him down with one of his pole-dance-leg-sling-moves. It was a pity really he had no time to marvel at this beauty of a technique because he had his own bolter to catch.

On his way after Moriarty, he grabbed one of the chairs and hauled it right over the bar counter, sweeping the entire armada of bottles and glasses and equipment to the ground behind it, blocking Moriarty’s way and thwarting his escape plan. Slowed down by the bombardment with booze, Moriarty was easy prey for a raging soldier. John tackled him right before he could vanish in the narrow space behind the bar, but the posh sleaky spider didn’t give in as easy as John had expected. It was quite the tussle before John had pinned him down chest to the ground, straddling his waist, securing his wrists on his back with a bone crushing grip.

“Game over, _Spider!_ ” John spat in his face. “I warned you to keep your hands off her or you’ll regret it. I told you—she’s mine!”

Moriarty turned his head but didn’t look at John but somewhere to his side.

“Charming, isn’t he?” He purred sweetly, and John realised it wasn’t meant for him. “So loyal, your Captain…” he said and his eyes snapped to John, a devilish grin on his face. “All hearts are broken…” he sing-songed and then closed his eyes.

John snapped around, never easing his hold on Moriarty, and looked straight into a pale face, blank and cold as stone.

“Sherlock,” he said, relief and anger and concern and adrenaline and endorphins all knotted into one tight ball of tension making his voice hoarse and sharp.

He heard a silent chuckle from the man beneath him and gave him an additional shove in the back. Sherlock looked at him for a fleeting moment with an unreadable expression before he turned and walked over to where Lestrade gave instructions to some of his officers.

John saw them talk for a moment but had no chance to get up and over to them as long as he had to keep the creature under control. Thankfully at some point one of the Yarders came to take him over to cuff and arrest him. After taking a steadying breath, John jogged over to Greg, confronted with the retreating back of his partner. Partner? Was he still?

“Hey, mate!” Greg greeted him with a friendly slap on the back. “Good work here. Looking for that lot for ages now. Pretty cool Sherlock was willing to help out with this one. I hope you recorded evidence,” Greg winked at him, the boyish grin beaming even from behind his mask. “Not something one gets to see every day, ey? The great detective in panties?” He laughed heartily. “Pity he had to change already, would have loved to see him all made up… We had a pool running, you know…”

“Yeah, great,” John interrupted him impatiently, not listening at all. “You know where he is now?”

“Oh… ‘course. Said he’d go for a smoke and then head home. Thought you’d know…”

“Yes, of course. Thanks, Greg. Talk to you on the phone…” John called over his shoulder, already on his way hurrying outside, worried if he’d find Sherlock there, furious about the situation he had brought them in.

The sigh of relief was completely involuntary when he saw a hunched figure in denims and white filthy vest with a chaotic mob of dark curls leaning against a wall in the back alley. His face was clouded by smoke and lit by the red light; features uncannily accentuated, giving him a mystical air.

At first, Sherlock didn’t react when John approached him cautiously, just kept hungrily smoking his cigarette and blowing the smoke into the night air through his pursed lips—damn, why was this so fucking sexy?—and was running shaking fingers through his tousled hair—didn’t make it any better sexy-wise.

Just when John was close enough and wanted to speak up, Sherlock’s laser eyes snapped up and pinned their focus on John’s. John’s brain immediately booted down, mesmerised, hypnotised, by sapphire eyes swimming in night dark ink. John swallowed, unable to say a word. Not fair, he wanted to be angry, he wanted to give Sherlock a piece of his mind. What did he even think? Running off without John, apparently knowing about the Moriarty-creep. And he really couldn’t tell John his lovey-dovey-lap-encounter with that Moran fellow was coincidal… Jeez, at least a bit of background information would have been n…

“Are you done?” Sherlock’s flat voice interrupted his train of fury thoughts.

“I’ve not even started yet…” John growled.

“Then don’t.” Was Sherlock’s only sharp comment. Pushing himself off the wall he strode past John leaving him to follow. Or to stay behind. Which was no option! So John jogged after Sherlock until they reached the main street and wordlessly got into a cab.

* * *

Sherlock directly strode into the living room; John could hear him agitatedly pacing on the rug. He himself took his time to get rid of shoes and jacket, to feel more comfy, to feel more like being home. And, to be honest, to gain some time.

When he felt ready for the inevitable discussion—he really needed to make some things clear to Sherlock, this was so not on—he inhaled deeply and walked into the dimly lit living room—and got immediately slammed face first against the now closed door.

All air was forced out of his lungs in a rush, carrying a faint “Sherlock” with it. The buttons of his shirt were pressed painfully against his chest, as Sherlock was leaning against him with his entire weight and pushed him flush against the surface.

John’s mind raced; this was not what he had expected. He was clueless as to why Sherlock would react like this.

“What did you think, John Watson?” Sherlock hissed in his ear. “Or did you think at all is the question?”

He felt Sherlock lean even more against him, his body heat only barely filtered through the thin fabric of John’s shirt; especially where the vest Sherlock wore didn’t cover his chest and where his bare arms were touching John’s sides, holding John’s wrists in a tight grip against the small of his back.

John groaned, for one because of the ache the twisted arms caused in his shoulders and second because of the slightly sweaty body pinning him against the door, pressed flush against him. He felt the contact from top to toe so to speak—Sherlock’s feet were spread, placed firmly on both sides of John’s, caging him in; his calves, his strong thighs steadily leaning against the side of John’s legs all the way up to his hips, as the V of Sherlock’s legs only met at a height where his groin was in one line with John's waist. Which meant that Sherlock was now grinding his crotch just above the swell of John's arse where it merged into his lower back. The rough fabric of Sherlock's denim, strained by his erect cock which was apparently ignoring his anger, rubbed against and above John's waistband, slowly un-tucking his shirt, baring his skin.

It was difficult to form a coherent thought like this, let alone speak. His breath was going fast, matching the quick rise and fall of Sherlock's belly and chest against his back.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock growled.

"All I wanted," John's voice came hushed and breathless, "was to rescue you."

"Rescue? Me?" Sherlock hissed, never easing his grip.

"Yes," John got irritated, struggling to free himself without success. "Rescue you!" he growled. "You know, that is what one does when the other is in danger." he tried to colour his voice as rich with anger as he managed in his restrained position.

"But I wasn't in danger." Sherlock huffed.

"Yes, you were!" John protested as hard as he was able to. "Fucking hell, Sherlock. That Moriarty guy and his gang had abducted you, you were completely at their mercy, dammit."

"I had it all under control." Sherlock said low. "Until you interrupted."

"Interrupted? Ha!" John laughed out humorlessly. "If I hadn't _interfered_ , you'd probably lie dead in some dark corner of that club with a bullet in your head." John snarled, seriously furious with Sherlock now. How dared he take this so lightly.

"No, I wouldn't. And yes, you interrupted, _Captain_." Sherlock grunted while simultaneously thrusting his hips forwards, shamelessly frotting his rock hard dick against John's lower back, forcing John's own groin against the door, mimicking Sherlock's movements. John moaned and closed his eyes. God, that man would be the death of him.

"He would have revealed much more information if we'd had just waited that tad bit longer. But no, you had to play the hero." Sherlock murmured in John's ear without real venom. "I have to admit, it was a tiny bit sexy…" Oh that bastard of a Pirate.

"Hero?" John hissed, from irritation and stimulation. "If not for me…" he panted, "All Lestrade and his... team would have found... were... our cold corpses. I called them just in time."

"Wrong," Sherlock rumbled, dangerously low. This tone of voice always caused a shut-down of John's brain. It almost did this time as well, but only Sherlock's next words made him halt.

"I called them first. They were already on their way." With that he released John's hands shortly to turn him around and push his back against the surface; only to immediately grab his wrists again and hold them above John's head.

John felt vulnerable and small like this, left to wait what Sherlock would do next. Which was, to John's surprise, run his nose up John's neck from collarbone to hairline and inhale deeply. A full-body shudder took hold of John; he couldn't help it.

"Oh, John," Sherlock mumbled against John's neck. "As usual you didn't observe at all."

"Well, I was rather distracted by the muzzle of the gun pressed against your temple." John growled.

Sherlock chuckled darkly and pressed his lips against said vulnerable spot on the side of John's face.

"You mean here?" he whispered and John felt the tip of Sherlock's hot tongue flick against his skin, licking a quickly cooling wet spot where John could feel his own pulse racing under his skin, echoing in his skull. It was intoxicating—his own emotions bouncing in lightning speed between anger and relief and want and confusion; the sensations Sherlock's touch elicited setting his nerves on fire; the sudden dizzying shift from control to surrender. John closed his eyes, head falling back against the door.

“I. Was. In. Full. Control. Of. The. Situation.” Sherlock slowly made his way back down John’s neck, pausing between words to nibble at earlobe, jaw, collarbone, to suck behind his ear, at his pulse point, in the hollow of his throat.

John was squirming, trapped between hard wood—the door was what he meant of course; even though there was definitely some different kind of hard wood involved in the trapping as well—and a firm body. Sherlock just held him now, looked down at him; his eyes still weirdly intensified by the dark shadows surrounding them; even more mysterious and enigmatic now the flowery flash of purple was gone. Lean yet strong bare arms pinned his own above his head, leaving him with the view of bulging biceps’ and hairless armpits, spreading pheromones that made John’s mind go foggy. Right in front of him his eyes were glued to the subtle swell of pectorals straining the skin tight vest Sherlock was wearing. The way it clung to Sherlock’s torso it strongly accentuated the little nubs of Sherlock’s erect nipples peaking against the thin fabric.

John tried to swallow but couldn’t; his accelerated breathing had left his mouth dry and his racing heart made it impossible to just breathe through his nose; as if he had just run a marathon.

Sherlock seemed to be in a similar state though, which drew John’s eyes down to where his flat belly rose and fell underneath the once white vest in a fast rhythm. He wasn’t physically able—well, mentally rather, or… physically after all considering the state of his desperate cock—to avoid his eyes from the stripe of bared flesh where the vest came untucked from the low hanging denims Sherlock wore. John’s breath stuttered at the sight of the peeking out V-line of Sherlock’s well trained abs, involuntarily guiding the gaze downwards to the obvious bulge tightening the worn out denim, showing the outlines of Sherlock’s fully erect penis. His eyes snapped up, when Sherlock spoke again.

“I came prepared, John. I’m not stupid.” he said low. John only huffed. As if...

“I knew exactly what I was doing.” Sherlock insisted.

“Well, _I_ didn’t, did I? Someone apparently forgot to tell me.” John hissed through his teeth. John looked up at Sherlock and knew his fury was plainly visible in his eyes. Sherlock watched him for a moment, scanning his face. He took a miniscule step back, only to lower their hands even though he didn't let go.

"After our little argument in the corridor of the club—you gave a pretty good show there by the way—I noticed some fellows I've seen before a few times watching with interest."

"Youuuuu… _played_ me?" John asked baffled, tilting his head sidewards, frowning.

"It was a game, John. Games are for playing…"

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock…" John wanted to step forward and get past the man holding him in place, but Sherlock was still standing solid as a rock—in more than one way though. He didn't even pretend to give a shit about John's advances to flee the scene and went on talking.

"I let them follow me. I went back to the changing rooms, got my bag and let everyone know, loud and clear, that I—and I quote—won't go home 'with that fucker' and that he, you though, can 'fuck himself if he thought he'd ever again get his rancid hands on me again'."

John felt as if he was slapped in the face, or rather only half of him, which felt weirdly surreal; the jealous John part within himself got slapped in the face and the protective pimp part got kicked in the balls. Either not very desirable.

"Charming," he huffed, but Sherlock ignored it.

"I pretended to need a fix and locked myself up in one of the stalls of the men's," Sherlock continued. Before John could voice his shock, Sherlock went on talking, "I quickly changed, left my purple dress visible, propped into the bag. They found me dressed like this with a strap around my biceps and a syringe half full in my vein."

John's nerves snapped. He pulled his hands forcefully free and strode past Sherlock. He shortly paced up and down before he spun around.

"Fucking Hell, Sherlock, you can't…"

"Saline solution, John." Sherlock smirked, but it fell immediately upon seeing John's rage.

"What the fuck would have happened, if _I_ would have been the one finding you?? Huh? Ever thought about that??" John yelled.

Sherlock stared blankly at him.

"I—maybe naively in retrospect—assumed that you'd realise rather quickly that the drugs were fake when you'd have found me well and conscious and in the full capacities of my mental abilities; as much even that I _could. have. explained._ " Sherlock said slowly, not moving, apart from his favourite mocking eyebrow.

"Implies that you've not had—and let me quote you here—the full capacities of your mental abilities for the fricking rest of the fricking last couple of weeks?? Because you… you know… you didn't explain one single bloody thing to me!" John yelled.

"John," Sherlock shouted to stop him then went on as before. "It was necessary for you to act as natural as possible. If you'd known too much, some disturbing emotions could have interfered with your act." He rattled on, ignoring John's attempt to protest. "And I had a gun, ready to draw. If you'd paid attention, you could have drawn your own conclusions. I _had_ thought, you of all people would notice. Moriarty probably just thought that I was pleased to see him."

John shifted on his feet, a bit uncomfortable. Should he have seen it? Should he have realised? Wait. Stop… Why for fucks sake would Moriarty have assumed that… ? John didn't like that! And a loaded gun? In Sherlock's pants? He didn't like that either! Well, not in _that_ way at least… Sherlock couldn't hold it against him though, could he? He couldn't expect John to find him in such a precarious situation, left in the dark and then keep a clear head.

"One Word, Sherlock. That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were okay. I was terrified when I saw you there like that, on your knees, surrounded by a bunch of brainless bulls, a gun against your head, completely helpless." John's voice wasn't steady enough to make a point, but damn if he would let Sherlock get away with putting himself at such a risk.

"You do know I'm a master in Bartitsu, right? I won't call that particularly helpless…" Sherlock said cockily.

"There were too many! That could have gone wrong in so many ways, Sherlock. What if I hadn't come in time? What would you have done without me?" John threw his hands in the air.

Suddenly the expression on Sherlock's face changed from mildly amused and annoyed to fierce and furious. He stepped forwards, narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not your damsel in distress, John! I don't need your protection! Before I met you, I might not have lived, but I did survive, you know?!" Sherlock stared him down, sparks of tension flying all over the place, the space between them billowing like heated air.

"That's not what this is about at all!" John protested harshly. He jerked himself free from Sherlock's capturing gaze, turned his back on him. His head hanging heavy between his shoulders, he stood in the middle of the room, running a hand over his face.

"No? Is it not?" Sherlock said mockingly behind his back. "So, tell me, what is it about then?"

John breathed out harshly, took a few wobbly steps to flop himself down in his chair. Watching Sherlock standing there, hands on his hips, tall and proud and beautiful, his throat constricted at the thought of how many times and in how many different ways he could have lost the love of his life this night.

"You damn well know what this is about." he said, his voice hoarse and strained.

Sherlock watched him, scrutinised him. His eyes were focused, his brows slightly drawn together. He didn't say anything, the silence stretched. Eventually, Sherlock took one slow step in John's direction, lowered his chin, held his gaze.

"Or... is it all about _this_?" he asked sultry, voice deep and dark, while gripping the hem of his vest and pulling it up and off in one fluid movement.

It left him half naked, in the truest sense of the word—arms and torso bare, lower half of his body still dressed. John swallowed hard; no matter the situation, the sight was undeniably sexy—Sherlock moving smoothly like a feline predator on the hunt, intimidatingly calm and composed even though his dark shadowed eyes emitted sparks of anger; curls in a disarray; face flushed from his troubled emotional state and possibly some other emotions as well; the naked skin of his muscled torso sinfully illuminated, the dim lights accentuating every hollow and every bulge his muscles formed, caressing his lean form, his slim waist; the well worn denims John had never seen on Sherlock before hanging low on his waist, tight enough to pronounce the curve of his arse, loose enough not to cling, exposing his hip bones and the now hairless patch of skin underneath his navel, where normally a thin trace of dark hair pointed down to where now Sherlocks long fingered hands rested on his waistband; thumbs hooked in, fingers suggestively framing his crotch.

When he stopped right in front of John, planting himself between John’s splayed knees and feet, John felt the heat emanating from Sherlock’s body, could smell the warm distinct and familiar scent of Sherlock’s skin.

“Is it _this_ that you thought was at risk?” Sherlock asked and unceremoniously popped his trouser button open. When John only swallowed, eyes skipping back and forth between Sherlock’s face and his groin, Sherlock lowered the zip in a torturing slow pace, bit by bit revealing a half hard cock covered in black lace. John took a shuddering breath.

“Sherlock,” he croaked, not sure if he wanted to stop or to encourage the man, his arousal evident in the way it tented the front of his today’s black dress pants.

Sherlock had obviously noticed, too, as he now lifted his foot and placed it, heavy boot and all, in John’s lap, putting delicate pressure on his trapped erection. John groaned, dropped his head. Fuck. What was his life?

“Take it off.” Sherlock said in a flat but unmistakably demanding voice. John’s head snapped up, he looked at Sherlock eyes wide.

“Don’t want to let me wait, do you? Go on then. Shoes off!” Sherlock said in the same detached tone of voice.

Not knowing how to react, John started unlacing the boot in his lap and slid it off the foot still clad in a thin stocking, now torn in places of intense contact with the rough material of the shoes; the holes causing ladders vanishing underneath the trouser leg. Oh God, shit! Sherlock hadn’t just kept on the panties but the stockings as well. Which meant… fuck fuck fuck. John’s breathing sped up, uncontrolled, irregular. Sherlock only watched him, switched feet, when the first shoe was dumped to the side. When the second foot was bared he left it in place, kneeded John’s rock hard penis through the fabric with his toes. John almost felt dizzy from arousal.

“Is it _this_ you desire?” Sherlock whispered and ran the tip of one finger over the lace along the length of his quickly hardening cock; his other big hand caressed his own inner thigh, long fingers brushing the bulge formed by his bollocks, reaching further backwards, tracing the seam that ran along his crease.

John whimpered, he couldn’t stand this, this was torture and Sherlock knew it. Dammit! He was unable to do anything but stare and wait and try not to come in his pants this instant.

When Sherlock lifted his foot and the pressure on his cock eased, he sighed in relief. However it didn’t last long—big hands with slender fingers splayed and slid underneath the waistband of the denims. John watched enraptured when they glided over the curves of arse cheeks, over hips and strong thighs; as they revealed the expected suspenders, the straps holding the stockings in place; as they effortlessly guided down the trousers on their way.

Caught in his trance, John startled when Sherlock, inevitably bent forwards in his movements, murmured right next to his ear.

“Tell me, Captain,” he said daringly, steadying himself with one hand on the backrest next to John’s head while using the other hand to slip the trouser all the way off of the leg now held up and bent to reach the foot. "Is all this…” he continued slowly, pointedly, in time with his motions. To John’s shock and delight Sherlock lowered his knee and planted it in the narrow space between armrest and John’s hip, which brought him close. Very close. All propped up on his knee, stretching backwards to slip the denims off the other foot as well, Sherlock towered high above John, looking down at him, bringing John on eye level with Sherlock’s belly. His navel, the seam of the garter belt, the lace of the panties strained and damp from the rock hard and leaking cock trapped inside it.

John couldn’t resist the urge to lean in, to inhale the scent of temptation and longing, to lick the heated skin, to grab the thighs firmly to keep the wicked sirene beguiling him from vanishing. He heard a suppressed moan above him, felt fingers harshly twist into his hair to pull him back. He looked up and saw Sherlock’s heavy lidded eyes study him.

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock lowered himself, knees shifting, hands gently following the motion—gliding down John’s nape, his neck, his shoulders and chest, brushing over his erect and sensible nipples, making him hiss. Sherlock settled lightly on John’s thighs, both Sherlock’s hands sneaking behind John’s waist, down to his arse and tucking John’s hips forward until their groins met. When their erections pressed against each other, Sherlock pinned John down with his full weight. John let his head fall back, tried to breathe, took a shallow and shuddering breath.

“Is all this…” Sherlock repeated, breathless himself, “... about the lap dances being exclusively yours, _Captain_?” To underline his intentions, Sherlock rolled his hips, grinding their cocks together, creating a maddening friction.

“Fuck! Sherlock…” John grunted, squeezing his eyes shut, holding even tighter on to the soft flesh under his hands.

Suddenly he felt fingers fumbling with his flies, quickly succeeding in opening them, before one warm hand slid inside to cup him, squeeze him. John panted. He opened his eyes in time to see that the other hand had retrieved the travel-size bottle of lube they had deposited underneath the Unionjack cushion on John’s chair for times of dire need. One-handedly Sherlock flicked open the lid, twirled the bottle with his long nimble violinist’s fingers and squeezed out a fair amount of lube to slick them. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on John, who didn’t know where to look first or if to look at all and what the fuck…

Without a word, Sherlock’s hand, currently buried in John’s pants, fondling his balls, pushed John’s pants down, just low enough to free his cock and scrotum. If he had expected to be the recipient of the lube, he was sorely mistaken. His desperate and leaking erection was held firmly in Sherlock’s unmoving hand; hot and pulsing and drippling precome without any further stimulation. John was almost out of his mind. _‘Sherlock… God, Sherlock… jeez… please…’_ his mind screamed, not able anymore to carry the words all the way to his mouth.

Wordlessly panting he watched when Sherlock shifted a bit backwards, creating space, lifting himself up, and moved his lubed up hand between his own thighs. Still fixing John with his piercing gaze, he hooked his fingers under the rim of the thin black lace panties and pulled them aside; cock and balls still held inside it only bared the soft and sensitive flesh of his perineum and left a hint of what lay beyond.

The mingled sound of both their harsh and fast breathing being the only noise breaking the silence, Sherlock ran his slicked fingers further backwards to where the dip of his entrance was hidden for John’s eyes. The mental image of Sherlock’s fingers, nails painted dark purple, tracing the crinkled pink skin of his own rim, made John’s penis in Sherlock’s tight grip revolt and throb; a sharp spark of arousal setting John’s nerves on fire.

Another twist of Sherlock’s arm, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, a deep moan leaving his parted lips—John knew Sherlock had breached the tight ring of muscles, had pushed maybe one, more likely two fingers inside to finger himself open. Sherlock’s chest was heaving rapidly, the flush on his skin deepened and short-cut moans made his throat contract and his Adam’s apple bob in a pulsing movement when he started to pump his hand back and forth, rock up and down on his quivering thighs to fuck himself on his own fingers.

“Oh God… fuck…” John exhaled and a full body shudder took hold of him. He was on the brink of coming from this insanely erotical display alone, when the hand on his cock suddenly squeezed him tightly at the base and Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and locked with John’s. Sherlock retreated his fingers, shifted forward and positioned himself to brush the precome-oozing slit of John’s erection against his own slick and loosened hole.

“So... if the lap dances... are all yours alone…” Sherlock puffed out between sharp breaths, holding John’s gaze, holding his cock, “How much are you willing to pay, Captain?” And with a wicked dirty little grin, Sherlock lowered himself and guided the head of John’s cock inside.

John gasped from shock—about the words, about the overwhelming sensation—his eyes blown wide. Still fully dressed apart from only his bared groin, John unbelievingly eyed the ethereal and devilish creature currently blowing his mind—Sherlock; exotic, otherworldly, extraordinary, unique and unmistakably Sherlock. A mesmerising mix of contrasts between pale skin and dark curls, eyes, lace; between desire, evident in his breath and flush and the patch of precome-wetted lace, and anger, sensible in the harshness of his words, the rudeness of his insinuations, in the fire in his eyes.

The wavelike push and pull he experienced, left John defenceless, spineless, weak and willing.

Oh yes, he wanted; he wanted more than anything, but not the way Sherlock was now, deliberately porny, bowing his head backwards, running his hand across his chest, up his throat, popping two fingers in his mouth and moaning almost comically. He looked into John's eyes again with a feigned hazy gaze and purring playfully while unceremoniously taking in all of John's erection. When Sherlock's plush arse was firmly settled in John's lap, his internal muscles squeezing and warming John's cock delightfully, Sherlock clownishly fluttered his eyelashes and looked innocently at John.

"Is this what you want, Captain? What's it worth, _Sir_ , me riding your cock?" Sherlock crooned and started to bounce on John's cock without much effect.

"Sherlock," John protested half-heartedly, breathless, "stop acting like a fucking prostitute."

Suddenly, Sherlock's entire attitude changed, as if a switch was flipped. He leaned forward, caged John's shoulders in with his hands and lowered his face to John's; just short of lips touching lips, their gazes linked.

"If you don't want me to act like a prostitute," he growled dangerously and lifted himself up, "then stop treating me like one." he hissed and slammed himself down forcefully, making their skin slap, forcing all air out of John's lungs in one sharp exhale.

"Sherlock, what… God, I'm not…" John panted but wasn't given the time to collect words or thoughts or any composure.

"Then stop behaving like my pimp," Sherlock growled between breaths, marking his words with the bold movements of his pelvis, raising himself only to sink down on John's stiff prick again with vigour. "Because you're not!" he hissed, never faltering in his efforts. Sweat making his skin sheen, and his curls cling to his forehead. John held on for dear life, even though he was convinced he had actually died by now; if this was heaven or hell he was not sure yet. "I'm not yours to sell. Nor anyone's." Sherlock's short hot breaths met John's parted lips, they shared the spare oxygen in the narrow space between their faces. Sherlock relentlessly rolled his hips, rose and fell in John's lap. John's sight started to blur at the edges, even if his focus on Sherlock never lost its sharpness. "But you, acting as if you own me..." Sherlock went on, voice becoming rough and ragged, interrupted by breathless grunts and moans, "... is exactly the same thing." 

"Oh God, Sherlock…" John croaked.

"Because it... makes me... your property." Sherlock grunted with difficulty, breath harsh, leaving only few breaks to speak. "Your… Oh God, oohhh…" he groaned, barely able to form full sentences anymore, "...your possession..." He increased his endeavours. "And I'm not, John!" he almost shouted, desperately gripping John's shoulders, digging his fingers painfully in John's muscles.

"Sherlock… I… _oh God_ ," John moaned. The heat, the buzz, the raw and ruthless want of his approaching orgasm built and swell in his lower belly.

"I solely... belong to... myself," Sherlock puffed out, almost a sob. Sherlock's thighs were trembling, losing rhythm. His eyes were glued to John's—both their gazes were hooded, dazed, eyes held open with difficulties, but neither of them wanted to break their bond. "And if I stay," he forced out under his breath, "I'll do so…" he paused, unable to speak, eyelids fluttering and almost falling shut. Focusing again, Sherlock gasped, "I'll stay… out... of my own... free... will..."

Apparently having said what he wanted to say, unburdened now, Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, shifted slightly, changed the angle of his hips and moaned deeply as he obviously had hit the right spot.

Threading the fingers of one hand into the hair at the back of John's head and gripping it tightly, Sherlock sped up his movements, desperately, forcefully almost pulling all the way off, slamming himself down again. "And I want to… I want to…" he muttered and grunted insistently. "I want to, John." Taking a free sharp breath, he fleetingly closed his eyes. "Oh God, John… Oh Gooood… I…," his eyes opened again, piercing John. "I want to… stay! Oh God, yes, please… _Joooohn_!!" Sherlock moaned loudly.

John couldn't form coherent thoughts or words anymore. All he was able to do was mumble senseless "Sherlock" and "fuck" and "Oh God" and "yes yes _yeeees_ " while holding on to Sherlock's hips and thighs and slim waist. Running his hands up Sherlock's sides, over his chest, his nipples. Gliding down again over the rippling muscles of his belly.

Sherlock was whimpering helplessly now, completely lost in lust. "John," he whispered, "please…"

Mind fogged, body boiling from desire, ready to burst, John slid one of his hands down and wrapped it around Sherlock's still untouched and lace covered cock.

Almost immediately, Sherlock shouted out, unable to keep his eyes open, his head thrown back, his body tensed before his hot release spilled into John's hand, into the black lace of his tightly strained panties. Through the force of his orgasm his semen stained the suspenders and straps, painted wet blotches on John's shirt and trousers.

Seeing Sherlock this wild in the throes of passion was almost enough to do John in, but as soon as he felt Sherlock pulse and clench around his cock, John was pushed over the edge as well. Shouting out something he wasn't able to recall later, he threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut and felt his orgasm take over. All the pent-up sensations and tension and overwhelming desire broke free, exploded, and he came and came, shot burst after burst of his release into Sherlock's body, before he floated into the woozy and warm and tranquil space of post-orgasm bliss.

When the aftershocks slowly receded, when their bodies calmed down, when breathing was an option again and the living room of 221B slowly gained shape again, Sherlock slumped forwards, leaning heavily against John. Their heaving chests were pressing, pushing against each other, sticking John's shirt between their sweaty bodies.

Slowly coming to his senses again, John realised what had just happened. Well, apart from incredibly sexy Sherlock in suspenders fucking him into oblivion in his chair which he'll never be able to look at again without getting a raging boner.

But the rest, God, he didn't know what to make of it. He wasn't able to wrap his mind around it. Of course, he had been aware of Sherlock's shifting and obscure moods, but then… hadn't he experienced the same thing throughout this whole weird case? He'd never expected Sherlock to react this fiercely. Was this… what was this?

John cautiously ran his hands up and down his partner's damp back, feeling him shiver under his caress.

"Are we… okay?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock, buried his face in John's neck, only hummed affirmatively, apparently not able to speak yet. He released John's hair, circled John's shoulders instead, awkwardly wriggling his arms through the non-existent space between body and backrest.

John sighed in relief, only now realising how worried he had been.

Occasionally brushing over Sherlock's hips and thighs in his never ceasing attempt to comfort his lover—and himself as well if he was honest—he traced the bumps of garter belt and straps in wonder, cherishing the sensation of the ruined lace of the stockkings under his digits, felt the hot breath in his neck, savoured their combined smell of fresh sweat and sex. He must have been a saint in a former life to be worthy of this unbelievably wonderful enigma of a man.

Reassured now, that whatever the problem was didn't threaten what they had, he felt the tension ebb away and release itself in bubbling up laughter.

"Jesus Fucking Christ… Sherlock," John chuckled, huffed, sliding his arms around the still heaving back of his lover. "What the freaking hell was _That_?"

"I... don't know…" a rough, dark, hoarse voice mumbled in his ear after a moment. "I guess, I was angry."

John laughed out, holding his man in his arms, squeezing him even tighter against himself.

"You don't say," he chuckled, hearing a responding huff. "Can you _please_ give me a list with all things that make you angry?" John giggled. The body in his arms was rippling with laughter as well. "Asking for a friend…" John added smirking, which caused Sherlock to sit up in lightning speed, their arms forcefully untangled.

"What do you mean… asking for a friend? What friend?" Sherlock's brows were drawn in concern and confusion.

"Oh, you silly!" John laughed heartily and pulled his beloved nutter in for a kiss long overdue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which questions are asked and answers are given, in which confessions are made and concerns laid to rest... in which they refill stock and take stock, in which one case gets closure and one case is solved. In which they find a way back to their old life and start anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> here it is then: the final chapter, which brings them back to the beginning and deals with unanswered questions and troubled emotions. For the boys, but also for you, my readers, I hope.
> 
> Thank you all for reading along! You're all marvels!! 
> 
> Sending you lots of love,  
> me xxx

It was heaven, to feel the weight of Sherlock pinning him down and in place, where he belonged, their bodies still connected. The wetness between them was quickly cooling, but neither of them cared, caught in the warm slide and caress of their lips and tongues. 

Eventually, John's softened cock slipped out of Sherlock, a bit of semen escaping Sherlock’s entrance in its wake. They quickly grabbed some tissues from the secret stack behind the pillow to prevent more leaking and dripping. 

After sorting out limbs and tissues and clothes, after getting themselves cleaned and freshened up, after sharing some reassuring kisses, they settled on the sofa; too emotional to go to bed, too many things still unsaid.

When Sherlock was settled in the V of John's spread legs, John holding him in his arms, Sherlock's back cuddled warmly and cosily against his chest, John finally felt calmed down enough to talk again. 

"What exactly were you angry about?" he asked hesitantly. "The lap dance thing? Why did it bother you so much?"

"Hmmm, why did it bother _you_ so much is the better question." Sherlock said quietly, tracing John's forearms with his fingertips.

"Well, I guess I might have been a tiny bit jealous…" John admitted, hugging Sherlock a bit tighter against his chest. He was happy to receive an answering squeeze of his forearms.

"You don't say." Sherlock deadpanned, mirroring John's earlier reaction. 

"Yes, I do." John chuckled. "Maybe a tiny bit more than a tiny bit."

"Your explanatory skills are magnificent, John." Sherlock said dead serious, but John could see the smile on his lips.

"You have to admit that it was pretty intimate what you did with that greedy ape there." John didn't even want to think about it anymore, but they had to get this out. 

"Well, the fact aside that you've been just as greedy an ape as him yourself only a year ago, the lap dance was part of the act. I have to say, it was a useful and essential part as it allowed me to get to Moran's gun and manipulate it. I knew he was the one Moriarty had sent after me. It was pretty transparent what The Spider was aiming for though. Did he really think I wouldn't notice he deliberately chose someone supposed to be similar to you? As if…" Sherlock huffed, apparently truly annoyed. "So, why was it different to everything else—which you didn't like to see me perform either? In front of others that is…" Sherlock tilted his head a bit to peer at John over his shoulder.

"Dunno…" John squirmed, averted Sherlock's eyes. "Yeah, okay, I do, but… it's silly actually." To put it in words was actually pretty embarrassing. 

"It's not silly if it makes you inapt of all sound judgement and causes you to act like a testosterone driven bulldog." Sherlock huffed.

"Bulldog?" John protested.

"Okay, true. Hedgehog rather..." Sherlock drew his eyebrows together as if contemplating, but grunted out a laugh when John poked him in his side.

"I…" John started but paused again. "I warned you, it's laughable really…" He cleared his throat and started over, "For some stupid reason I thought… or _hoped_ rather, that lap dance, you know, when we met, would have been special. That it had been… hmm, just for me." John shrugged one shoulder and felt his face heat up. "I guess, I was a bit disappointed that apparently it wasn't…" he trailed off, feeling ridiculous and futile. 

Sherlock shuffled and turned to look John in the face. His eyes were earnest when they roamed John's face.

"But… it _was_ , John." Sherlock frowned.

"How?" John shrugged, feeling vulnerable in his confession.

"I normally don't come that close, John. Normally it's all pure acting. It wasn't with you." Sherlock said calmly.

"Normally…" John huffed, somehow it felt bitter in his mouth.

"Yes, normally." Sherlock squinted his still smokey eyes. "Before _you_ , I never came close enough to reveal what was hidden under my skirt—even though they no doubt assumed, I never gave anyone any physical confirmation. Except you. Also, I never enjoyed it myself—at least not the way I did with you..." Sherlock winked.

"Sure as hell looked as if you did tonight…" John grumbled.

"But then, tonight, all I saw and thought of was you. My body might have been with that disgraceful man called Moran. But my mind wasn't. It could never have been, John." Sherlock said seriously and studied John's face.

Suddenly, Sherlock's glances and gazes during that lap dance fell into place. They hadn't been meant to drive John away but to keep him close. John felt a bit sick at the thought of how thoroughly he had misjudged the situation. He was lost for words.

"It's not only the offering of lap dances, is it? What's it you're _actually_ so angry about?" Sherlock asked, obviously honestly out of his depth for once.

That was true. John knew it was true. However, he had to shake himself out of his pondering and sort his mind to be able to keep up with the direction the conversation was heading for. It was hard to be honest, but that was the only way if they wanted to solve this mess. He cleared his throat.

"Mainly the part where you earn money with it. You've done it before last night, haven't you? You looked much too comfortable with it for it to only be part of your act. No matter how good an actor you are…" John inhaled deeply. "I don't like the thought of you selling this glorious fantastic perfect body for money."

Sherlock squinted his eyes.

"Is that why you called me a prostitute?" he asked defensively.

"Well… yes? I guess? That's what they do, no? Sell themselves for money?" he shrugged. "And just the thought…" he shuddered, "I just think it's beneath you. You don't need to do that. You deserve better!"

Sherlock sat up properly now and studied John's face. John could see a defensiveness coil in those stormy eyes he didn't really understand. Hadn't he just confirmed how much he valued Sherlock? To his surprise Sherlock's voice was more restrained and intent than before when he spoke again.

"What's the difference with cooks selling their skills to sate people's hunger and appetite?" Sherlock asked calmly, intensely watching John. 

He felt nervous under the scrutinizing gaze; a bit as if he'd have to defend his doctoral thesis again—the greenhorn having to stand his ground in front of a brick wall of decades of expertise and skills. His tongue was tied, what was he supposed to say? Had it even been a question? 

"What about actors whose profession solely exists for the pleasure and entertainment of others?" Sherlock went on in the same matter-of-fact voice. "What about detectives selling their most precious feature, their brain, just for the thrill of chasing the most abhorrent kind of human beings?" Now Sherlock looked daringly at John, challenging him to contradict. He lowered his voice, emphasizing his next words. "What about doctors touching people in the most intimate way during their most vulnerable moments?" Sherlock's piercing gaze bored itself into John's core. 

Shame started to spread its queasy slimy goo through his belly and chest and mind. But Sherlock wasn't done yet.

"Is that any better, John? Any more honourable? Why?" Sherlock tilted his head and studied John, seemingly sincerely curious now. "The majority of those persons, those sex workers you're apparently looking down on, are earning their money by working hard, mostly under terrible conditions. They aren't hurting anyone!" He now stated very emphatically without being accusatory. "There is no evil intent behind their work! If anything, they're helping society by occupying individuals who would seek their pleasure in other much less desirable ways. So... John," he watched John, puzzled and apparently honestly interested, "tell me, why is their work any less worthy of your respect? Why do you think you're entitled to put yourself above them? And for the record—I've never been a sex worker. And I've already told you that!” Sherlock looked expectantly at him.

John swallowed, at a loss for words. What was it that he had wanted to say? He honestly didn't know. He cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably.

"You're… right. Yes, I'm—I'm sorry. It's just…" John grimaced.

"John, before I met you, I never took anyone home after a performance. That had never been the purpose or my intention. But you just assume, you never ask." Sherlock said, his voice somehow reassuring despite the reproach.

"What was I supposed to think? Especially after tonight's display of your… skills..." John asked helplessly.

"You were supposed to trust me," Sherlock said calmly, taking John's hands in his. He looked down at their threaded fingers, brushing his thumb over John's knuckles. "You were supposed to know that I'd never do that to you, John Watson!" he said quietly, not meeting John's eyes. He sounded small and hurt, but also a bit embarrassed and ...insecure?

 _'Oh God, Watson, you big dumb dickhead of an idiot! Well done, you!'_ Jeez… he wished he would be able to kick his own ass!

He slowly, cautiously, freed his hands and cupped Sherlock's face, pulled him close, searched his gaze. He was relieved beyond all measure that Sherlock didn't pull away, but rather leaned in and smirked tentatively.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." he said, low but intently. "You're absolutely right and I'm really really sorry." He searched Sherlock's eyes in the hope to convey the depth of his regret. He fucking loved this man! He couldn't have him being hurt. 

"Don't be." Sherlock shook his head slowly. John knew what he meant but it was unacceptable.

"But I am... I am, Sherlock." he insisted. "I'm an idiot." he sighed.

"Yes, you are." Sherlock confirmed flatly, amusement unmistakable in his voice.

John smiled broadly, relieved. He pulled Sherlock in for a firm grateful kiss.

"For once, I agree." He chuckled, grinned at Sherlock, whose lips twitched in mirth.

"Finally," Sherlock's suppressed laughter made his voice rumbling and thick. "You accepting this obvious fact makes it all worth it." 

He pulled John forward and kissed him deeply again; John savoured every single minute of it as if it was the first and the last time, almost unbearably happy to know that it wasn't either of them.

Quite a while after they had settled again and enjoyed the regained comfort between them, John suddenly froze; the fingers that had run through Sherlock's hair still buried in the ruffled mess of curls.

"Wait… all that still doesn't explain why _you_ reacted the way you did, Sherlock." He tried to get Sherlock's face in view by shifting the man slightly in his arms. "You avoided that question deliberately, didn't you?" That thought had just popped up in his mind and John wondered if it was true.

“Hmmm… maybe…” Sherlock mumbled evasively.

“Why?” John asked, puzzled. This wasn’t like Sherlock—Mr Punchline. “You’ve been so furious about it like I’ve never seen you before. Not with me, at least,” he added a bit sheepishly. “Surely you want to still get it out? It wasn’t proper talking we did there just yet, right?” he nudged Sherlock playfully, indicating he was okay with it; that he’d face whatever Sherlock had to say.

“I don’t know, John. It’s nothing really and… can’t we just enjoy _this_?” He snuggled a bit closer against John, like a cat seeking warmth. “It’s good now, isn’t it?”

“Come on, Sherlock…” John couldn’t believe his ears. “It’s hardly nothing if you’re killing me for it!”

“First of all, you’re still alive. And second, if I recall correctly, it was actually sexual intercourse that we had.”

“Same thing in this case!” John laughed. “Christ, Sherlock! Really, that was…” There were still shivers running up and down his spine at the mere thought of it. Wanking material for the next century!

Sherlock only huffed and shifted a bit in John’s arms; most likely sitting in the same position was a bit uncomfortable after the rough treatment he had inflicted on himself. The blush John could spot on his cheekbones also indicated that he was either abashed or flattered by John’s words. Or both.

“So, tell me! What is it? I vaguely remember something about ‘belonging to yourself’? What did you mean?” John sensed that this might not be the most comfortable conversation for him, but he wanted to understand. He had obviously—no, definitely—hurt Sherlock. He didn’t want it to happen again.

“It’s just…” Sherlock started, apparently still hesitant. “Well, you’ve not been particularly… sympathetic towards my past. I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to broach that subject again.” Sherlock cleared his throat, tensing up in John’s arms. 

John pushed him slightly, rearranged their tangled bodies so that they were sitting facing each other.

“Please, tell me. I want to hear it.” he said seriously. “It’s important to you, so it’s important to me! And I told you, I’ve been an idiot!”

That elicited a warm smile on Sherlock’s face and John saw something like relief soften the look in Sherlock’s vampire eyes.

“Alright...” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I think when you called me a prostitute…”

“I didn’t really, actually,” John wanted to make clear.

“John…” Sherlock said sternly.

“Yeah, right. I’m sorry. Go on.” John said apologetically.

“Okay, so, when you—what it felt like—,” Sherlock said pointedly, “called me a prostitute, I think I just snapped. In my past, during the time I was more active in the scene, it was the one thing that was always mistaken. Not only by the kind of people you’ve had the pleasure to deal with,” Sherlock smirked and John winced at the thought of all the offers he had declined with all his might. “But…” Sherlock paused, seemingly lost in memories of that time. “But also by my family—you’ve heard the undertones when Mycroft mentioned Uncle Rudy? Now imagine that exaggerated to not just undertones directed at me until his minions confirmed what I’ve told him multiple times already. Namely, that there wasn’t any additional threat to my sanity, let alone one that included some kind of emotion towards _people_!” 

John laughed at Sherlock’s imitation of his pompous big brother, but got serious again pretty quickly when he saw the thoughtful expression that took over the grin on Sherlock’s face.

“Same with my parents, although I think they’re still not fully convinced. However, they rather react with concern and protectiveness; bestowing unannounced visits on me to check that I haven't turned the flat into a brothel.” He huffed out a humorless laugh.

Suddenly some events and observations fell in place for John and he scowled internally. Some of Sherlock’s formerly seemingly inconvenient reactions became suddenly more than understandable. He put a hopefully comforting hand on Sherlock’s knee and was relieved and pleased when Sherlock’s hand joined his. The purple coloured nails though, led his thoughts off track, reminding him of places they had been… He was pulled from his pretty pleasant memories when Sherlock picked up his explanation again.

“There were also so called colleagues who thought they’d have the right to form an opinion on that matter, but I couldn’t care less about them," Sherlock said dismissively even though John knew that wasn’t quite true.

“But John, you have to understand… The entire time I’ve fought so hard to rectify that misconception, to set that record straight… of sorts…” He smirked at John who grunted amused. “I really didn’t care what they thought of me, but that they judged me because of it, looked down at me, without even caring enough to ask to confirm or defuse the rumours… I have to admit, it hurt.” Sherlock was quiet for a moment, swallowed. 

“And then, there was you...” Sherlock said low and hushed. He looked up, straight into John’s eyes, holding his gaze and John could feel the weight of the words emphasised by the intensity of that voiceless exchange. “You’ve been everything I’ve been looking for. When I saw you for the first time, I immediately recognised that you were different. You looked differently at me; you’ve not been there to score. You even fought that urge in the beginning—I still don’t understand why, by the way, knowing and being the lucky recipient of your more than average libido now. It definitely wasn't because you were repelled by me. That was also why I dared and wanted to let you know who I really am. You know now that I never did that before.” 

Ashamed, John lowered his eyes, but Sherlock caught them and almost invisibly shook his head. John understood and was grateful—that part was dealt with. Done. Chapter closed.

“You didn’t disappoint me,” Sherlock said, almost as if to reassure him, but John knew it was actually to continue his story. “Even though you weren't an expert in the field, to put it mildly…” John thumped him goodnaturedly and Sherlock chuckled. “Still, you never judged me for what I did, even less deplored me. I think that’s also why I might not have told you about the full extent of my experience. Well, before this case started. And then… the more you learned, the more the way you looked at me changed.”

John cringed. He hadn’t realised.

“I was terrified to lose you.” Sherlock admitted silently. “But we’ve started the way down that road already and there was no way back.” He swallowed and John kept quiet, just waited, his stomach coiling in dread.

“And then…” Sherlock took a shuddering breath. “When you then said what I’ve been afraid of all the time,” Sherlock’s voice was choked and tense, “I was…” he paused again, hesitating, “well, kinda devastated, to be honest.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, voice thick with held back tears.

“You weren't supposed to be like that.” Sherlock said insistently. “I was furious; why would you be like that?”

“I’m not, Sherlock! I’m not! Please, I’m sorry!” John said, desperate for Sherlock to understand.

“I know, John!” Sherlock nodded. “I know now.”

John pulled him in to hug him tight, hold him close; tried to let Sherlock feel how much he respected and cherished and adored him.

“Thank God,” he whispered over and over again.

When they parted, something occurred to John. He frowned.

“But that’s not all, is it? You’ve already been pretty angry before that. What did you mean? You didn’t live but you survived? That’s… a severe thing to say.”

“I meant what I said—I survived. Not everyone was good-natured regarding the services they thought I had to offer. There was more than one interested party who wanted to earn their money by selling my… company. I always succeeded to scare them off—quite literally sometimes. Even to fight them if they got too nasty. I always found something that was their ruin or at least hurt them enough to teach them a lesson; after a while they left me alone, you know my methods, John.” Sherlock looked a bit proud of himself. “And I’ve always, _always_ been on my own.”

“You’re not anymore though.” John squeezed one of Sherlock’s hands. “Didn’t you know? There are always two of us now. Don’t you read the newspaper?” John smirked.

“Maybe I should, huh?” Sherlock smiled at him conspiratorially.

“Yeah, you should. You might also learn who’s the current Queen of England.” John teased him.

Sherlock gaped at him, eyes blown wide—the perfect picture of an indignant drama queen. John laughed heartily.

“Why? That’s obviously me! I’m deeply hurt, John!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Right you are, love!” John, still chuckling, pressed a kiss on the willingly reciprocating pouting lips of his partner.

“There was this one guy though,” Sherlock thoughtfully went on afterwards, “only one of them who always slipped out of my grasp. And he was the worst of them all. What he did to some of the workers and dancers that had displeased him or refused to work for him… John, I’ve seen a lot and I can bear even more, but…” Sherlock shuddered. “And I knew he was obsessed with me. I suspect, mostly because I resisted every attempt to subdue to anyone. It was a sick game for him, something personal, like a challenge. And I swore to never let him get me and to hand him over as soon as possible. He kept a low profile since I decided to retreat from the scene, when I met you,” Sherlock shrugged a bit… embarrassed? “I thought I could let it go and he… actually I don’t know what he thought and I also didn’t care. I had no desire to cross his path again now you were in the picture.” He tightened his grip on John’s hand. “Then this case came up. Even though he never showed his face, he left clues; unfortunately never enough to convince anyone who didn’t know about our history. However, when you mentioned the Spider and I knew he had approached you, I couldn’t just stand by and watch you be put in danger. Even more so by my own doing. I had to get to him. Alone. Just me and him—like the good old times.” Sherlock huffed out dismissively. Disgusted.

“So, that’s why you’ve been so livid with me for interfering? You wanted to do it all alone? All heroic like a fucking duel at dawn?” John asked, not only a bit irritated. “You’re aware that in the end always one of those heroic morons is dead, yeah? Fucking always!!” John said, more forceful and grimmer than he had intended. He inhaled, scolded himself, and said calm and more controlled, “Sorry, imagine I said that without shouting. So, that is why you’ve been angry with me? Because I’ve ruined the showdown?”

Sherlock looked a bit abashed, tilted his head and grimassed.

“Well, yes.” he admitted and John nodded, glad to have been told even though he didn’t approve.

“Among other things,” Sherlock suddenly murmured and John’s head snapped up where he had lowered it, lost in thought.

“Huh?” There was more? “Okay…” he stretched reluctantly. It already was pretty much to chew on, John thought. And if there was even more bothering him… Well, no wonder Sherlock had been a ball of nerves lately. “What other things?” He gathered all his courage to ask.

“You haven’t been there to rescue… _me_ , really.” Even though the words were spoken quietly and without force, they seemed to have the most impact of all of them for Sherlock, considering the way Sherlock was wringing his hands. “You’ve been there to rescue Miss Pirate.” Sherlock said quietly.

“I…” John blinked, frowned. “... don’t understand. Explain?”

Sherlock watched him for a moment. John mirrored his silent contemplation even though he was convinced they saw different things—apart from the obvious of course. He just couldn’t grasp what. Or why.

“You saw me differently.” Sherlock said as if that would explain anything.

“Yeees… you already said that…” John crinkled his nose, not knowing where this was going.

“No, that was about something different. That was about you weighing my past, contemplating if it’d make a difference for you.” 

John blushed. He felt caught out, which shouldn’t have surprised him, facing the most observant man on the planet.

“And that was a consistent issue, bothering you no matter which situation we were in—club, breakfast, eying me over the edge of your book as if I wouldn’t notice… always the same.”

John cringed. “Sherlock…”

“What I mean _now_ is, ever since I put the costume of the Purple Pirate back on, the way you looked at me changed. More so, the way you treated me was different, too. Only ever when I became Miss Pirate, as you like to call me then.”

“I mean, Miss Pirate _is_ damn hot, you have to give me that! You can’t judge me…” John said defensively, winking at Sherlock.

“Well, _that_ particular effect on you is rather fortunate, I have to admit.” Sherlock smirked. “But,” he went on more seriously, “you’re also getting jealous and protective. Much more so than usual.” When John wanted to protest, Sherlock held up a hand to stop him. “And also more than the role you had to play would have justified.” He looked pointedly at John, waited for John to acknowledge it. When John didn’t make any more attempts to contradict, Sherlock went on, quietly, pensive. “Don’t get me wrong John, I like what it implies in general—that I’m important to you, that you want me well. But what happened at the clubs, that… wasn’t the John I know. You’ve been possessive, menacing… frightening by times. You’ve never behaved like that before.”

John tilted his head; he had noticed it himself. Of course, he had. Still, he didn’t fully understand—neither his emotions and behaviour nor what it had to do with whatever Sherlock wanted to say.

“On crime scenes during the cases, talking to clients and suspects, you’ve shown your jealous streak as well, mind you. Only then, it was more a kind of being proud. Of me. Of calling me yours.” Sherlock squinted his eyes, seeking for confirmation, a faint tint of red colouring his cheeks. “True, you lashed out at everyone who came too close or threatened me with words or deeds and defended my honour. Although, it felt more like your way to show me off.” Sherlock huffed a small laugh.

“What felt different with Miss Pirate?” John needed more of an explanation, he was too entangled in his emotions to make any sense of Sherlock's words.

“Exactly that.” Sherlock stated. “You saw Miss Pirate and treated her like a delicate flower, like a breakable porcelain doll. Like something to wrap in cotton wool and protect from the bad bad world outside. However, when you see the Consulting Detective, you admire him for his mind and wit, you’re impressed and like to show your ‘Posh Boy’ off.” He lowered his chin to look at John, whose face was on fire, and challenged him to deny it. “You want to support him to get along with the idiots that normal people are to him; but you’re also of the opinion that he’s a great pain in the arse sometimes and that it is his own fault and he has to deal with it himself. Am I right?” He raised his eyebrows and waited for an answer.

“Hmmm,” John winced, quite embarrassed, “I guess…”

“See? That’s the problem. You see two different people. But it’s all me, John.” Sherlock said urgently.

If John wasn’t mistaken there was something pleading in Sherlock’s voice. As if he needed John to understand at all costs.

“That’s who I am and I need you to see me as a whole. There are no different personalities. It’s all one and the same—I’m Sherlock as well as William, as only my Uncle Rudy used to call me. I’m also Shezza, who you luckily haven’t met yet and I hope never will. It’s what I went by among the addicts in the dens. And then there’s Elle and your Miss Pirate even if it’s actually the same. I’m the Violinist and the Chemist. And yes, I’m best known as the Consulting Detective. And only for you I’m a boyfriend and a lover and… a vampire.” An amused but intrigued little smile spread on his lips. He continued earnestly, holding John’s gaze when he spoke. “Just as you are an army Captain and a medical doctor, a surgeon to be precise. But you're still the ugly jumper wearing John Hamish Watson and my blogger and my partner in crime… Well, rather crime-solving. And my... John.” 

John felt his throat constrict and fought the tears welling up, because seriously, he had been in the Army, right? And… and… he was a British man whose uppermost rule was not to show emotions and damn… there went the first unruly tear. Was there really no-one and nothing obeying his orders anymore? To make it all worse, Sherlock reached over and wiped the tear away with his thumb. 

“You can’t have just a part of me,” he said, low, warm, but insistent. “You have to take all of me or nothing. Because that’s who I really am.” He searched John’s stupid moist eyes for a short moment before he murmured, “And I really really hope that you’ll decide to take the whole package.” A shy tentative smile lifted one corner of Sherlock’s beautiful mouth and flooded his eyes with warmth. 

Faster than John realised what he was doing he had pushed a yelping Sherlock onto his back, straddling him and pinning him down on the sofa. Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes still framed in their stunning pirate-y vampirish adornment. John’s heart swell and swell and he was certain that it stood a good chance to be considered a medical sensation judged by its size.

“Sherlock William Shezza Elle Holmes, you amazing researching and violin-playing Dancing Drag Pirate Detective… I love you to the moon and back with everything you are and everything you’ll ever be! But don’t expect for one single second that I’ll ever stop being jealous!!!” he said, happy laughter mixing with his tears strained voice.

“The moon?” Sherlock frowned, but the mirth was obvious in his suspiciously moist eyes. “I’m disappointed, John. Isn’t that the closest to earth celestial body there is? I was hoping you’d go deeper… into space, I mean! We might have to wait a day or two for other black hole excursions…”

“ _Sherlock_!!!” John screamed, leaning on Sherlock’s wobbling chest, unable to hold himself up from laughter. “You’re never ever again allowed to make puns!! Oh God, I…” He didn’t get any further as a new wave of giggles took over until tears fell from his eyes again—this time from happiness and relief and love.

“I thought you loved everything about the solar system…” Sherlock said hoarsely, still laughing himself. “And for the record, I'll take the complete package of Captain Doctor blogger partner John Hamish my love Watson as well, please. Take away, if possible.”

He leaned up and kissed John tenderly, the taste of their mixed tears on their lips.

“God, you…” John whispered when they parted and looked at Sherlock in wonder. “How do I even deserve you…”

Sherlock looked back as softly as John had ever seen him. Something like wonder in his eyes as well.

“Because you _chose_ me…” he whispered.

“Well damn,” John grinned broadly, and said teasingly, already leaning down for another kiss, “Why is everything always my fault, huh?” 

Sherlock hummed happily before their mouths were silenced by a deep passionate kiss.

* * *

They woke up tangled together on the sofa, sore from too little space and cold because the one blanket they had shared had slipped to the floor during the sparse hours of sleep.

John was almost crushed to mush by an all engulfing Vampire Pirate Detective; or in this case rather a sleepy cuddly warmth-seeking Sherlock. The man shuffled and snuggled closer and closer in a way John didn't think was possible without melting into each other. 

"Love… you're suffocating me." he grunted out, muffled by a shoulder half covering his face and short of breath because of the octopus leg slung around his middle. 

"You're too small, John." a sleep gruntled Sherlock mumbled into John's hair.

"Well, thanks… and a good morning to you, too." John laughed, unable to move as much as a pinky. "Charming thing to wake up to…"

"First of all, you've already been awake before me so you hardly woke up to that. Second, it's not an insult but a scientific fact." Sherlock mumbled in the same fashion, not easing his vice like grip on his partner.

"How's that scientific?" John felt like a character in a bad sitcom, both of them not moving, leading a conversation of barely understandable mumble-muffled words.

“You’re too small to emanate a sufficient amount of body heat to meet my needs because your short height diminishes the effective expanse of surface; in this case temperature transferring skin.” Sherlock prattled while inching even closer to John, who—despite his apparently too small surface—tried to engulf his beloved in his arms and warm him; angling with one hand for the blanket on the floor to cover them.

“In that case, I’ll ask Mycroft to better replace me with a gorilla. More surface.” John mused while nuzzling Sherlock’s neck.

"Tickles!" Sherlock giggled and squirmed, but didn't move an inch away, nor did he loosen his hold. "John, your beard!" 

John hummed, cherishing the feeling of being able to elicit such light-hearted joy in his aloof and sometimes detached partner. Although, right now, he couldn't really be called detached the way the man clung to him. 

“Too hairy.” Sherlock complained.

"What?" John shouted, as far as that was possible in his wedged-like-a-sardine-in-a-tin-state. "I thought you liked my beard!" As punishment he only intensified his efforts, reveling in the sniggering and wiggling it caused. 

"No. Yes. John, please… stop!" Sherlock begged, now in a full belly laugh. "I meant the gorilla." 

“Oi! That’d be your only objection?” John laughed, pushed Sherlock up by his shoulders so that he could look at him. He was met with a broad grin that he immediately needed to reward with a kiss. “Well, considering you’re an expert in depilation, I’d better go pack my bags then.” John murmured, his own grinning lips moving against Sherlock’s.

John startled and nearly fell from the sofa, when Sherlock suddenly jumped up, all tangled in the blanket and his dressing gown and John’s limbs, and floundered and tumbled over their furniture.

“Sherlock, what…” John sat up, watching his partner whirl through the door into the hallway and down the stairs.

“The shopping!” Sherlock yelled up the stairway.

“Yes? And? You’re not going out, are you?” John got up and called after him, slightly horrified. “You’re in nothing but your dressing gown!”

But Sherlock was already on his way back up the stairs, his gown slightly askew, carrying two heavy bags of Waitrose instead of their usual Tesco carriers. Well, not _that_ hard a guess to whom they owed this delivery. Sherlock dumped the bags on the kitchen table, scurried to the living room again and flopped back onto the sofa. John looked back and forth between nutter-boyfriend and clutter-kitchen.

“Well, what’s this then?” he asked, standing in the middle of the room—dressed in nothing but pants, hair ruffled, hands stemmed in his side.

“Shopping. Obviously.” Sherlock said puzzled, looking at John as if he had lost his mind.

“Yeah… I can see _that_ ,” John stretched, hiding a small amused smile in his mouth, “but it’s not unpacking itself, right?”

“I ordered it, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, voice filled with indignation. “ _And_ I carried it all the way up the stairs! I am of the opinion that you, too, can contribute a bit to our shared household duties!”

“Of course, right, I see…” John laughed. He really didn’t know why this sort behaviour was only ever acceptable of Sherlock—even if it actually wasn’t, but he couldn’t help it to find it as endearing as he found it infuriating. And of course the bastard was fully aware of that.

So John made work to unpack the bags; shaking his head in disbelief and snickering more and more in amusement the deeper he dug into them. 

“Honestly, Sherlock?” John laughed while eying their purchases.

“What? I thoroughly thought ahead and ordered everything we’ll need for the upcoming period. All our needs will be satisfied.”

“Ha!” John barked out. “Yes, you can say that. But really, Sherlock, we’re getting groceries from _Waitrose_ and all you order are cans, instant and ready-to-eat food? Not to forget the fuckload of biscuits of course.”

“Biscuits are elementary, John!” Sherlock protested.

“Absolutely, Miss Elle Lamentory.” John nodded seriously. “How dare I doubt that.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock nodded cockily but winked at John. John chuckled and for a while they just stupidly grinned at each other, before John cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.

“The poor sod, though, who had to buy the other stuff…” he smirked.

“Oh, come on, John. They do get paid enough to endure the field work in a supermarket, don’t you think?”

“True that,” John laughed. “Still… did you place a pre-order or did the poor chap have to empty the shelves? How many bottles of lube and shaving foam even are there?”

“Well, I hope enough...” Sherlock beamed like the cat that got the cream. “At least enough to give them time to refill their stock. I refrained from buying wax though as that wasn't quite the success. However, for some reason I took a particular liking to the soothing lotion so I ordered that nonetheless. Wouldn't do any harm, I thought...” Sherlock got up and sauntered in John’s direction, who was very vividly reminded of the way Sherlock’s Pirate had roamed the audience the night before. Only now, there was no-one else but him and the smokey vampire-owl eyed beauty in nothing but his burgundy dressing gown. Fuck all the other guys—this man had chosen him, John Idiot Watson; how could he have ever doubted that…

"Good thinking there…" John murmured, welcoming his man in his arms. 

"That's known to be my forte," Sherlock grinned.

"Not your only one though…" John responded warmly and cradled Sherlock's face in his hands to pull him down and claim him with a deep felt passionate kiss. After a moment, Sherlock abruptly withdrew from the kiss and looked at John with childishly innocent gleaming eyes.

"Did you also see the eyeliner and mascara, John?" he asked excitedly.

"Uhm… yes." John's voice and some over-eager body parts becoming thick at the thought of it. "They're… a lot, too. You intend on trying them all out?" He cleared his throat.

“Obviously.” Sherlock, apparently oblivious to the state John was in or possibly exactly the opposite, held him by his shoulders and animatedly informed a flustered John about his absolutely totally without second thoughts plans; that wicked tease of a man.

“I intended to set up an experiment to compare the different brands and types on their texture, the durability, the comfort of application and removal—even for untalented people…” Sherlock smirked and John nudged him with his shoulder which turned out to be a full-body bump against Sherlock, who didn’t draw back but rather welcomed John’s form flush against his own and quickly trapped him in his arms. 

“And most of all…” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear, “I need to compile a list and fill in a spreadsheet about the different effects it has on… people.” Sherlock’s lips grazed John’s ear and a shiver spread down his back. “Purely scientific, of course. And there are so many possible combinations of the different eyeliners with the mascaras… I’m afraid it will take a while…” he rumbled, kissing down John’s neck, nuzzling his beard along his jaw, humming approvingly. 

"I'm sorry, John, I know how much you despise when I lose myself in my studies. And that you usually don't appreciate when I'm... digging too deep into the subject of my experiments…" Sherlock said pointedly with a devilish grin, and nibbling on John's collarbone he slid his hands down John's naked back, taking hold of John's bum—each of his big hands covering one of John's arse cheeks.

"I think…" John said, a bit breathless, "I can make an exception for this one. Dig as deep as you want…" 

Sherlock growled and his wandering hands and fingers suggested that he was about to make use of the opportunity, when very inconveniently his mobile buzzed and beeped. They tried to ignore it but it went off again. And again.

"John, please pass me my phone." Sherlock groaned.

"Course', luv. Where is it?" John turned a bit and looked over his shoulder to search the kitchen table behind himself for the phone. 

"Pocket. Dressing gown." 

"Sherlock…" John rolled his eyes in a perfect Sherlock imitation.

"Well, my hands _are_ occupied…" Sherlock said and kneaded John's arse cheek to strengthen his argument. Well, he did have a point there… 

John patted Sherlock's sides to retrieve the phone and realised the pocket in question was trapped between their bodies. The crooked smirk tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth indicated that he had been perfectly aware of that fact. John growled goodnaturedly at him and fumbled for the phone, involuntary but inevitably brushing delicate hyper-sensitive body parts on his way. Sherlock, the insufferable tease, didn't ease the pressure of their bodies against each other in the slightest; rather the opposite. Bastard. John's favourite bastard, though.

When he finally got hold of the device, he got on his tiptoes to place a quick peck on the tip of Sherlock's nose and wiggled to create some space between them. 

As Sherlock didn't give any impression of being interested in the phone whatsoever, John took it on himself to unlock the phone and check the messages. While he was fumbling with the phone, Sherlock resumed the neck kissing and nibbling, which didn't make John's progress any quicker. At last he succeeded and opened the latest incoming messages.

"Mycroft," he groaned when Sherlock simultaneously nipped his earlobe with his teeth. 

"John, I wouldn't have expected you to safeword out of innocent foreplay." Sherlock mumbled unfazed without interrupting his working on John's neck.

"Sherlock…" John moaned, "you know what I mean." But Sherlock just kept doing what he was doing which was driving John crazy. "The texts, come on… can't read them like this…"

"Okay then, go on," Sherlock agreed, but still didn't stop.

John sighed and tried to concentrate on the text messages.

John scanned the text and huffed amused.

“To sum it up, he asks you to kindly order your life-saving supplies online from now on, because it’s wasting valuable government resources…”

“Oh, that’s what we’re calling it now…” Sherlock’s rumbling chuckle emerged from somewhere below John’s collarbones as it was where Sherlock had headed towards.

“He does have a point though. He says that per your request they’re tracking down all the people from the clubs we encountered? To get them tested? He needs all available manpower for that, he says. Isn’t that a fuckload of work, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock, who had now retreated from his efforts to neck-nibble John into bed and had made an immediate mood-jump to sulking, growled and snatched the phone out of John’s hands.

“Pompous idiot whining about doing his job. His sole purpose in life is to fix what the current idiots elected to reign this country are apparently incapable of managing. In this case exhaustive tracking, testing, registering and treatment of Covid-19 infected people.” He was furiously typing away on his phone before he dumped it on the kitchen table.

“What did you answer him?” John chuckled, enjoying the brotherly bickering.

“Exactly that. And if he’s claiming to be the government he should care more for the wellbeing of his country and its citizens. Furthermore, he wouldn’t want a member of the royal family to get infected during her next visit to one or another dominatrix.” He flopped on his chair on top of his phone, dressing gown falling open, baring the entire enticing artwork that was Sherlock’s body. 

“Sherlock…” John croaked and cleared his throat, but was interrupted by Sherlock yelping and jumping because of his phone buzzing underneath his bum.

“Oh what now?” He scowled, probably expecting another of his brother's texts, but his expression lit up. “Lestrade,” he simply said. “He has news. John, where's my Laptop?”

"No idea! How should I know?" John shrugged.

Sherlock whirled out of his chair and, to John's immense regret, pulled his dressing gown around himself and tied the belt to close it.

John shook his head and smiled fondly at the image of his boyfriend rummaging through their living room, digging into heaps of newspapers, making cushions and blankets fly until he emerged with a triumphant grin.

“Found it!” He said.

“Uhm… That’s mine. Not yours.” John frowned.

“Same thing.” Sherlock just waved it off and flopped on one of the chairs at their table in the living room. Immediately, he opened the laptop and got to work looking up his mail.

“Right,” John snorted. At the same time his stomach gave an angry growl, indicating that lunch time might be a good time for breakfast. He turned towards the kitchen with the intention to prepare some kind of edible meal for them and was immediately reminded of the fabulous variety of supplies Sherlock had purchased. He sighed. 

Feeling a bit too bare for doing household chores he picked up the shirt that had been carelessly dumped over the backrest of his chair the night before. Sherlock grunted displeased, but John only raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in the direction of Sherlock's… 'groceries' to wordlessly tell him, 'Stop complaining or you'll have to do it yourself', which silenced the man immediately. 

John turned and looked at the mess still cluttering their kitchen table. Resigned but nonetheless amused he walked over to randomly pick up some things before peeking through the doorway of the sliding door between kitchen and living room.

“So, what’s on the menu today? Baked beans with HobNobs or mixed pickles with chocolate spread?” he asked Sherlock, wiggling the items in question in his hands.

“John, that’s disgusting!” Sherlock exclaimed, looking up in horror.

“Well, it wasn’t me doing the shopping,” John laughed.

“Obviously, the intention was to combine the HobNobs with the chocolate spread! Really, John, do keep up!” Sherlock huffed but grinned broadly before going back to lose himself in the new information he got on the case.

John chuckled and resigned to his fate of trying to nourish them the upcoming two weeks by tinned food alone.

“Dull… dull… dull…” Sherlock mumbled, scrolling through forms that were attached to Lestrade’s emails. When John cleared his throat and threw him a warning glance, he backed down. “Dull for _now_ , we will see to that later. You know, this is probably the only good thing coming from this vexing pandemic—we can do all the paperwork at home and Lestrade will never again be able to force me to come to New Scotland Yard after a case just for that now it is proven that it can just as well be done from our sofa.” He grinned broadly at John, very pleased with himself. Then focused back on the mail. “Ah, here. Update about the interrogation. Oh, well done Lestrade…”

“What?” John curiously asked over his shoulder, wanting to get the vermin named Moriarty out of their life, rather sooner than later. “What is it?”

“”Listen… Apparently Moriarty’s organisation is even bigger than expected. Well, unexpected for everyone but me maybe…” he muttered. 

“Sherlock,” John gently admonished him, walking over to put their plates on the table. He had found some sausages in their fridge that miraculously hadn't passed their expiration date yet and had settled on beans and sausage and toast, which was only fit for human consumption because it was browned and soaked in butter. “Come on, indulge me. Go on. Impress a boy.” He leaned over and pressed a short and soft kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. John saw him glancing sidewards at him, before he inhaled deeply and started to rattle off the information he had gathered through Lestrade's mail.

“He has built up a widely spread international web of a multitude of crimes, of which he barely commits any himself. He’s like Mycroft but then on the other side of the same coin—he has his minions to do the dirty work for him and earns all the glory. If Mycroft is the Queen, then Moriarty is the King of the Underworld. There is really only one branch of his business so to speak he’s personally interested in and that is to indulge in his little kink for dancers. Preferably male dancers. Even more so, gay male dancers.” He shifted a bit nervously on his chair, lowering his eyes, watching the keyboard of the laptop intensively. John, who had settled across from him, watched him, concerned.

“That much I had figured out myself, and also that he had taken a special liking to me. Obviously. Also, that he was behind what happened to some of my fellow dancers. Some were gone for days, turned up again bodily unharmed but frightened to death, not one of them dared to say a word about what had happened to them. Those who let slip the tiniest hint ended up dead and were found in the weirdest places—abandoned factories, on the shore, in a car in a car park. I didn’t find a connection back then…” Sherlock trailed off, frustration evident in his voice. “I thought there must be clues, that it would lead me somewhere, but he was always a step ahead, never got a grip on him. Now he confessed that it was all just a great game for him. Misleading me, making use of my, what he calls a weakness, that I always want everything to be clever.” He sighed. “It was his way to make me dance when he had no other possibility to do so because I refused to work for anyone but myself.”

Sherlock looked up and watched John silently with tender eyes, caressing his face with his gaze.

“He confessed he knew Elle Lamentory was the same as the Consulting Detective; I’m not surprised. I actually suspected he knew all along even though I never told anyone; only you and Mrs Hudson knew. And my family, obviously. But Moriarty is not stupid, so of course he knew. Lestrade managed to make him confess that he had, especially for me…” Sherlock looked appalled, downright disgusted actually, “...created a case to lure me back into the scene. Last year, during the time I had retreated from my old life because of… reasons," he cleared his voice, "he didn’t want to risk becoming too visible stepping into the light of the public, so it had to be me who had to return to the shadows.”

When Sherlock stayed quiet, John sensed that it wasn’t the whole story. He ran one of his feet up and down Sherlock’s calf to calm him. It seemed to work, at least a bit as Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. When their eyes met again, John nodded encouragingly at Sherlock to indicate he should go on.

“What I hadn’t been aware of was,” Sherlock swallowed, “that he never wanted me for business or because of the thrill of the challenge to be the one to break my will. As Lestrade now came to know, he wanted to take me with him to Serbia, where apparently his cosy little home is located…” There was a hesitation and John didn’t like the tension radiating from his partner. He paled a bit when he spoke again. “Including a basement where he kept his harem. That’s most likely where the other dancers disappeared to. Including some kind of dungeon to convince them to please him and his company. But as he apparently confessed now, he wanted to have _me_ for himself. To live with him. In his quarters. As some sick sort of treasure, just to sit behind glass like some breakable China. That matches what I deduced. At least as far as him wanting me alive, or rather something in that range. That's also why I was certain he wouldn't harm me. At least not seriously. As he said, he just likes to ‘watch me dance’…”

John got sick at the thought. He leaned forward, dropped his fork and took both Sherlock’s hands in his and held them tight.

“That will never ever happen. I won’t let him. I won’t allow anyone to harm you or take you away from me! Never, Sherlock! They’ll get a proper dose of Captain Watson! I’ll throw them from the next cliff!” He growled and held Sherlock's gaze, squeezing his hands to underline the sincerity of his intentions.

“That’d need some proper calculating considering the next cliffs are a good 100 miles away.” Sherlock laughed and squeezed back, striking his thumb over John's knuckles. “Don’t worry, John. He’s now under arrest and in custody. I will however have to appear in court to testify against him…”

John groaned, disgruntled at the thought that they’d have to face the loathsome creature again. 

"When?" he whined. He was really so done with this case, he couldn't bear any more of it anytime soon.

"Considering they only arrested him yesterday and they've only just started to investigate and look for evidence to his story I don't expect it too soon." Sherlock tried to reassure him. "Also, with the staff shortage due to the security measurements it'll take even longer."

"Talking about that…" John eased his hold and picked his fork up to resume eating but didn't let go of Sherlock with his other hand. "You let everyone get tested, I assume we will as well, right?" He waited for Sherlock's confirming nod. "I think we should take precautions anyway. We've been exposed to so many people and I don't completely trust those tests and just imagine we spread it; I couldn't live with the thought and if one of us gets sick... I want to be able to keep an eye on you at all times…"

"Oh, that's what I was hoping for… Not to get sick, obviously. But I won't mind you keeping an eye on me, Doctor. I'd suggest you better look closely, those germs are very small. Better examine me thoroughly…" He said and lowered his voice sultrily, and John felt one of Sherlock's slender feet suggestively travel up his calf.

"Would be the responsible thing to do indeed…" John grinned and lowered his voice. "But seriously, Sherlock,..."

"We'll go in a precautious quarantine for two weeks, just to be sure." Sherlock interrupted. "Everything is arranged so that nobody will be at risk to catch the virus from us."

John was relieved and grateful that Sherlock had thought about it. The thought warmed him inside, around his heart, in his chest, tingling in his belly. The self proclaimed sociopath taking precautions to keep others safe; arranging a mass tracking to get people tested he didn't even know. Some kind of sociopath he was… Well, maybe a bit after all considering the devilish grin forming on his lips...

"Isn't that convenient?" Sherlock purred. "Two weeks of quarantine with no-one allowed to come near us. Not even Mrs Hudson. Especially not Mrs Hudson. Two full weeks to ourselves, undisturbed, with a refilled stock of mascara and eyeliner. And if I might say so… with quite a few new inspirations… _Captain, sir_ …" he playfully lowered his eyes and blinked his lashes at John, although the look he gave him was anything but innocent. Same as the foot now traveling past the crook of John's knee.

"Hmmm, I can think of a few, yeah… watching you the whole time was very… uhm… stimulating," John grinned back.“Pity about the Purple Pirate dress though. You sure it's lost? Can't we go back to the club and get it? Or send Mycroft? I will miss it.”

“Oh, I'd love for Mycroft to pick it up and bring it over," Sherlock grinned, "but I'm afraid Moriarty's minions took my bag with all my belongings including the dress when they found me. I haven't seen it back. Don't know what he has done with it. Probably getting a plushie Purple Pirate made of it."

"Sherlock," John winced at the thought. "Don't even…"

But Sherlock raised John's hand to his lips and pressed a comforting kiss on his fingers. 

"Don't worry, John. It doesn't bother me. So it shouldn't bother you. For my part let him be happy with it; as long as he stays away from you. From us. Maybe it's good this chapter is closed and we start writing our own story. Together."

John huffed amused.

"How very poetic, Miss Lamentory." he chuckled.

"Here I'm trying to give you some much needed lessons in poetry and you don't take me seriously! Really, John, I'm vastly disappointed in you!" Sherlock gasped and John laughed heartily. 

He couldn't believe his luck that, after everything, they were still this. They were still them—completely bonkers, them. Good God, he loved this man. Not able to hold back any longer he got up, circled the desk to cradle Sherlock's face in both his hands, lean down and pull him into a deep tender kiss. With difficulties he pulled away from those addictive lips and looked at his friend, his partner. In the truest sense of the word: his other half.

"I love you." he said, plain and sure and unwavering, sealing it with a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

He saw Sherlock swallow hard and avert his eyes. He fiddled with the keypad of his laptop, but John knew he was just hiding feelings which threatened to spill over and run down his cheeks. Sliding his arms around the shoulders of his beloved John held Sherlock in a tight embrace, chest to back, pressing his nose to the chaotic mess of ebony curls. 

"I love you." he whispered again. "I have ever since the first time I laid eyes on The Posh Purple Pirate and I will keep doing so even if there'll never be a Purple Pirate again." His throat tightened and he had difficulties to swallow. 

"As much as I loathe to confess it," Sherlock said after a moment, trying to sound aloof but the slight shaking of his voice and the trembling hand reaching up to caress John's forearm betrayed his attempts. "I appear to be quite sentimental about the Purple Pirate dress as well. It was… special. We can have something similar though, custom made. I already looked up a specialised tailor for more exclusive kinky stuff. We can make an appointment after our quarantine period, what do you think?" Sherlock offered excitedly, looking over his shoulder up at John, who knew he didn't have to answer because that decision was already made. "On their website I discovered that they also have a variety of other options; they really do live up to their reputation." 

Sherlock turned a bit in his chair, narrowed his eyes and studied John intensely. Feeling in much too close proximity to be scrutinised this intensely, John straightened and occupied himself with their dishes.

"Oh, do they? Our place to be then…" he said airily, picking up their plates and walking over to the sink to do the washing up. 

The screech of the legs of Sherlock's chair on the wood of the living room floor told John that Sherlock got up to follow him. Silent like a cat Sherlock had sneaked up on him and even though he had expected him to be near, John was startled when two long arms wrapped themselves around his waist from behind.

"How do you feel about nurses John?” Sherlock asked slowly, nuzzling John's nape.

John first raised an eyebrow in confusion—what was Sherlock on about? No idea, they were mostly well educated and an essential part in their health care system, also irreplaceable and valuable co-workers. Then, realising the context the question was asked in, he blushed furiously.

“I could come visit you at work or pretend to be a new co-worker." Sherlock suggested, voice smooth and sultry, trailing his nose along the side of John's neck, making him shiver. "There're nice attires for male nurses, too… although, you know now—I'm quite good at pretending to be a woman!” 

“Christ, Sherlock…" John swallowed. Hands still covered in foam, the dishes were abandoned and he turned in Sherlock's arms to be face to face with his partner. "No, I wouldn’t want to mix up our bedroom shenanigans with my work. Would never again be able to work without a boner that way.” He laughed, slinging his arms around Sherlock's shoulders—soap and all; who cared anyway.

Sherlock smirked, very pleased with himself and mischievous in a way that told John he was in trouble. Oh god, maybe he'd better stop working at the GP office all together...

“They do have a special section for vampires as well, by the way...” Sherlock growled low in his throat. Leaning over, Sherlock licked his lips. John couldn't help but giggle.

“What about me?" he asked, still chuckling while Sherlock playfully nibbled at his throat. "Want me to be… dunno, what would you want me to be?" 

"You’re a Doctor who owns a white coat and a stethoscope, aren’t you?" Sherlock purred into John's ear. "You’re also an army Captain who kept his old fatigues and dog tags." Sherlock straightened and looked into John's eyes, suddenly much more serious. His voice low and soft when he said, “I have all I need, I couldn't possibly wish for more."

John's eyes grew wider and wider, his breath became a bit shallow and a confusing mix of warmth of a variety of origins flooded his body and mind. He hadn't known, suspected yes but never considered to this extent, what those things meant for Sherlock; what they did to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock liked him being a doctor, and his military kink was more than obvious. However, that these things, which were basically just John being John, were everything Sherlock desired and wanted, was a bit mind-blowing to be honest. 

"And… you now have a closet full of sugar daddy worthy Posh Pimp attires.” Sherlock seamlessly returned to his masterful teasing. He bit his lip and wiggled his eyebrows. John huffed a laugh but then frowned.

“Wait… I thought you didn’t like…” 

“No, you're right. I didn't." Sherlock confirmed a bit more earnestly, even though the boyish glimmer never left his eyes. "Not when you inherited that role and you seriously meant it." He watched John for a moment, roamed John's face with his eyes.

Still mortified about the extent his anger and jealousy had engulfed him beyond any rhyme and reason, John cringed and grimaced. 

"Let's never do that again, yeah?" He searched Sherlock's eyes, hoping his beloved would understand the depth of his regret. However, he was rewarded with that adorable way Sherlock scrunched his nose when he was confused. 

"What exactly? Pretending? Role-playing?" he sounded sincerely hesitant. Cautiously he added, "But… John, it's part of our work. You know that I have to. A certain amount of disguise is inevitable for some cases. Sure, we could try to choose more carefully and try to…" he worriedly gnawed on his lower lip while seriously contemplating, but John stopped him—freeing his lip and pressing a gentle kiss on his mouth.

"No, love. Don't worry, nothing of that. I meant pretending without talking it through. Just assuming and hoping everything would work out just fine. Listen…," John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his dressing gown and locked eyes with him, pinned him into place. "I'm happy to play any kind of fool, for you. I will run along behind you like some groupie, making you look like whatever the case requires, if that’s what you need. But we're going to need to coordinate. No more going off on your own and no more leaving me in the dark. We're in this together, yeah?"

Sherlock scanned his face for a moment then bent forward and caught John's lips in a deep kiss, taking his time in a way that felt to John as if Sherlock tried to confirm and refresh and seal their bond. Warm soft lips caressing his own, without any heat but with even more heartfelt emotions. A promise and a confession. 

"Alright." was all Sherlock answered with a voice gone a bit hoarse. "I have to say I'm relieved," he said a bit more steadily and John saw the twinkle return to those mesmerising eyes. "Because I never said anything about being averse to _pretending_ … Can you even imagine what it does to me seeing you in those suits?” Sherlock smirked lewdly.

Relieved by the change of mood, John grinned. He released Sherlock's dressing gown in favor of sliding his fingers into the most glorious curls on the entire planet. Who was he kidding, in the entire universe!

“Hmm, I have an inkling but I think we need to confirm it.” John teased him. 

"Honestly, John, you have no idea…" Sherlock growled and pulled John tighter against him.

"I actually think I do…" he laughed at Sherlock's doubting huff. "Full same for me when I see you dancing, you know. Of course you do, how could you not…" he chuckled and Sherlock joined in. "I think that it's not even necessarily your pirate that does it for me," John continued, caressing Sherlock's face with his hands and his gaze. "It's just… you. Good God, your body, Sherlock…" he groaned, his own body shuddering from the tingle sizzling through his nervous system at the thought. "I don't know how that pole doesn't melt in your hands…"

"I do know other…poles…that are in danger of melting in my hands…" Sherlock murmured playfully, running one hand over John's chest and belly and further downwards, cupping John's approving cock through his pants and squeezing slightly. John groaned, but Sherlock released him with a wink; a promise to come back to this later. “But… to _stick_ to the subject," he said suggestively, "do you think a dancing pole could be installed?” 

"Jeez, Sherlock,... I don't know if…" John laughed, torn between enjoying their lighthearted talk which brought back the easiness into their home and their hearts, and the thought of other very enjoyable activities. "Mrs Hudson would never be allowed to come upstairs unannounced again. Let alone, enter the bedroom…" 

Sherlock chuckled in the warm and low voice that was so own to him.

“Even though I'm convinced Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest, we can always tell her it's for a case." he said, amusement and joy evident in his voice.

To see Sherlock this happy and unrestrained after all those challenging and straining last weeks, most of all after the night before, filled John with hope that they had survived this storm without too much damage and with the confidence that they'd manage to sail any troubled waters ahead of them. They'd start over new without ever forgetting their wonderful whirlwind beginning. 

“Oh, about that…” John leaned back a bit to be able to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Oh, don't bother with Hudders past, it's not relevant to…" Sherlock cut John off, sounding a bit… evasive? Whatever, not what John wanted anyway, he'd interrogate Sherlock about Mrs Hudson's involvement at some later point. 

"No, that's not…" John pressed a finger on Sherlock's lips to silence him. The man looked at him with big expectant eyes. "Case. I meant case." John said, but Sherlock only wrinkled his brow. John took a deep breath.

"When we met, all that time ago, at the club… I asked you if you were a drag queen but you denied it." John waited for Sherlock to catch up to that memory. 

The shy shrug and the averted eyes told John that Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about. After their intense talk the night before he had a suspicion as to why Sherlock would have lied to him at that point. Or rather hadn't told John the whole truth. However, there was one thing that bothered John ever since.

"That night you told me it had been for a case." John frowned and studied Sherlock, who was looking back at him as open and trusting as John had ever seen him. "I still don't know… What case was that?"

Sherlock smiled tenderly at him, releasing John's waist to reach up and cradle his face, running his thumbs slowly and gently over the bristly hair on John's cheeks. 

"I think it was the case of the wrecked Pirate and the drowning Captain." he said warmly. 

John swallowed against the lump in his throat, then smiled back.

"You solved that one." John said.

" _We_ did." Sherlock murmured. "Wouldn't have been able to solve it if not for you, Captain." Sherlock smirked and leaned in to close the distance between them.

"Then let's make sure that _this_ ship never sinks, Miss Pirate." John whispered against Sherlock's lips before he sealed them with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> As always I can't even remotely adequately express my love and gratitude for my betas and dear friends @jobooksncoffee and @shylockgnomes, who are dealing stoically with my roving mind and spontaneous ideas. Thank you both so much for your unfaltering patience and constant support.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> People who want to have some visuals of Sherlock's pirate dress can find them at the end of "The Posh Purple Pirate (Enter My Life and MakeMe Drown)"/part 1 of the series.


End file.
